What Happens Over Hevoi Brings Interesting Results
by shakespeareaddict
Summary: OC-centric. General Swiftwater and her fleet are on a diplomatic mission to the "neutral" planet of Hevoi and its moon, Sava, which turns out to be a trap. Not a surprise, what with the Sep ships in the front yard, but being prepared isn't the same as survivng.
1. Prologue: A Letter

This is my second shot at full-lengths, and I _will_ finish it this time, I swear, but I might not post regularly, since it's still in the works. Basically, it's an origins-y story that should explain most of my OCs from current and future chapters of "After the Order", as well as those I tried (and failed) to introduce in "Small Steps". You can all thank sachariah for encouraging me to try full-lengths again, and Captain Kale, too, since they both are helping me on technical issues.

And yes, B'arin Apma and Vhonte Tervho are cannon characters. They were part of the Cuy'val Dar and trained clones on Kamino, I only expanded them a little (or a lot) because they seemed to fit this story.

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><p><em>Hey Zach,<em>

_Sorry it took so long to write back. It's been crazy over here. They're trying to churn out some of these boys before they're all grown. Some of them are just a few months shy of standard deployment age, and I can understand that even if I don't agree, but _some_ people think it's a good idea to send out some of the older Eights. Screwed up, right? Like they're ready yet. I didn't complete teaching you and yours counterintelligence until you guys were Nines. What di'kut would consider letting them go out without knowing how to handle that sort of ossik? And you told me about that group of Fives who came to see how a "real" cruiser is run a few months back—that wasn't smart either. I tried to tell them it was a bad idea, but they didn't listen, and those boys are lucky to not have emphysema by now._

_(By the way, I checked on them like you asked. They're doing fine, even the kid with the synthetic leg. It's working well, and he's grown into it—now he's just gotta hold on until he grows out of it enough for the longnecks to agree to a replacement. I had to cash in a lot of chips to keep him around, but it was worth it for a kid with such a Mandokarla.)_

_Anyways, I'm doing my best to tell the "powers-that-be" that they really shouldn't be shipping out boys that young. If you ask me, those aiwha-baits should be chopped up into tatsushi—Kal's offered to loan me his recipes more than once. It's ossik like that that's been eating away most of my time, sadly, and I'm lucky to have found enough to send this. But I figured you wouldn't mind too much, it's a worthy cause and all._

_You mentioned in your last letter some discipline problems you had with a pilot of yours. I know you want my help, and I'm always glad to give it; I'm just not sure how much advice I can give in this area that will really help. You might not know the whole story, but Kal told me __exactly__what happened between him and the kaminiise concerning the Nulls. He said Ordo pulled a gun on Ko Sai, and he was actually considering finishing her himself, and if it had been me and you boys instead, I admit I'd do the same (wait, I already have…), so I doubt I'll be the best source of solid knowledge concerning discipline. But you said something about him having a sweet spot for a certain bounty hunter, right? Let him run around a little, and if things get too out of hand, threaten to forbid him from seeing her. If he doesn't believe you, the next time she comes, slam his shebs with so much work he doesn't have time to think. Trust me when I say, it'll work._

_I'm glad you like that knife so much. In all honesty, I never used it much because I preferred my own, but it's good to see someone's still using it. It's been in my family for a couple generations, and I think my dad would've been pretty pissed if it hadn't gone to my son. (And don't go on that you don't deserve the honor, because you do, believe me. You boys all deserve a father.)_

_I have a favor to ask you. You remember that one group of less-than-traditional __vode__ the Kaminoans were threatening with reconditioning? This was around eight years ago, so you might not recall it all that well. It was the Vhonte Tervho incident, actually, or rather the first one you were alive for, if that rings any bells. Point is, I made the kaminiise agree to let the kids live on a few conditions, and now they're being deployed._

_Well, I noticed that one of them has been assigned to your command. You'll know the guy on sight, believe me. I'd appreciate it if you'd keep an eye on this one. This __vod __is very special to Tervho._

_Thanks._

_Stay safe, ad'ike._

_B'arin_


	2. In Which Introductions Are Made

Chapter 1: In Which Introductions Are Made

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><p><strong><em>Bridge of the Republic Cruiser <em>Indomitable_, en route to Hevoi system, 0803 hours Coruscant Time_**

Captain Zach considered himself a very reasonable man. He knew he wasn't exactly a "model" captain, not the sort of clone the Kaminoans had been expecting when they'd created his batch, but he was capable and determined and sane, more or less. He could do any job given to him, take care of any man under him, protect anyone he was told to defend, improve any plan he was shown, and kick any tinny ass he was allowed to fight. On the whole, he considered himself, if not one of the best then at least better than the average command clone, and he thought his boys were more or less the same in comparison to other units. Most importantly, he made his buir proud. Proud enough for Apma to give him his deceased father's whittling knife and say said father would've been upset if it hadn't been passed to B'arin's son. It didn't matter what Apma'buir said, he really didn't deserve to be called that, but he did everything he could to earn the title.

Perhaps all that excellence gave him a slightly inflated head, which he wouldn't necessarily deny, and that was probably why, once he heard that the whole fleet would be heading to the Hevoi system so General Swiftwater could calmly convince the planet that strangling the people of their moon was a bad idea _and _none of them would be getting any combat action for at least three days, he had stormed off in a huff of rage and spent a good two hours locked in his room with only Apma's knife and a pile of wood blocks for company. When he finally emerged from said room, the pile had been reduced to shavings and a few mutilated…he honestly had no idea what the hell they were, but none of them were worth keeping, so he'd tossed them in the recycler. After all, the point was not to make art, it was to relieve anger and stress without taking it out on a medical droid. (Because according to his best friend Patch, it was a bad idea to rely on only the finite amount of medics, even when you weren't expecting casualties and medical droids were the only tinnies within scraping distance.)

Zach sighed and rubbed an eye. And on top of everything else, he'd just received word that they were taking on two, count 'em, _two_ batches of shinies. He'd been expecting only one particular shiny when he received a letter from Sergeant Apma, warning him about "a trooper" involved in the "First Vhonte Tervho Incident", as if it were a great siege or battle or something. Between Tervho and Apma, it might as well have been, actually, since it was only a matter of time before they _did_ start a war, no matter how kindly B'arin thought of her. (For as much as he loved his old training sergeant, and as little as he knew of "relationships", he thought Apma'buir was a complete idiot if he assumed everyone was fooled by his façade of apathy towards the fellow Mando, even if the Mando herself failed to notice it.)

And it wouldn't have been all that surprising if it was this vod's whole squad coming—Tervho's troops tended to stick like gription, and he also knew they would probably turn out as good as he could hope for with shinies, so he wouldn't even have minded, but _no_, they had to slam him with another squad of incompetents, without bothering to ask if he needed more men. And later the general herself would be getting a Padawan. He hadn't known she'd even _applied_ for an apprentice, which both surprised and irritated him. She didn't tell him everything about her life (he wasn't stupid enough to think she would—or should), but he would've thought that something as important as that wouldn't escape his ears unless she was deliberately trying to avoid telling him.

Ah, speak of the devil.

General Swiftwater, being far less than conventional as well, was actually a little over half of the reason he had to call himself mostly sane instead of completely sane. There were some days when, after dealing with the Jedi for long and particularly trying periods of time, he would wonder about that "mostly".

The general was smiling softly as she entered the bridge, though her expression seemed to darken slightly as she came up to the clone. She probably felt that he was still upset despite his whittling session the night before, or something along those lines. "Everything alright, Captain?" Her voice held no distinctive accent, but the senior communications officer swore he could hear the mildest of Sifleean inflections, most notable in the lengthening of mild two-syllable vowel systems.

"We're dropping out of hyperspace in an hour to pick up some supplies."

"Supplies? Didn't we just refuel after that skirmish on—"

"And some shinies."

"Oh. What do we need new troops for?"

"You think I know, sir? They don't tell me these things. And…." He hesitated for a second. Insulting the discretion of a general was usually frowned upon, but he went ahead anyway. "And it seems you don't tell me about certain newcomers of your own."

Her face screwed up in confusion. "What?"

"I heard your Padawan is arriving."

"Padawan? Since when am I getting a Padawan? I didn't even apply for a…." Her expression darkened further, making her look slightly demonic. "Kenobi." She said the word like it was a curse. So, she hadn't known. That was a shame.

The senior communications officer, Blake, who had been pretending he wasn't listening (he admitted to a love of—or as his less judgemental brothers put it, obsession with—the sound of her "accent"), confirmed her statement. "Sir, General Kenobi himself was indeed the one who contacted us. I thought it odd that he would be delivering this fairly routine news personally, until he mentioned your new apprentice. Assuming all proceeds as planned, said Padawan should be arriving with General Skywalker's reinforcements sometime tomorrow, since the 501st appears to be finishing up some minor cleanup from their latest misadventure, sir."

"Call him back, I want to ask him just what in the—"

"Actually, sir, he none-too-slyly brought up the fact that the 212th was headed into Separatist space, behind enemy lines. Communications should be restored safely by next week."

"Oh, wasn't that a happy accident?" She more or less stormed off the bridge, and Zach felt the need to follow and make sure she was alright because there was no telling what she'd do in a mood like that.

The general stopped at one of the balconies overlooking the hangar bay, where she slumped against a railing wearily. The past few weeks had been hard on everyone, running around half the galaxy in search of one opposing military genius or another and getting embroiled in all kinds of trouble on the way, but it took its toll on her especially. While other generals might leave all the grunt work to their men or their subordinates, Swiftwater was of the "if you want the job done right, do it yourself" school of thought. She would always take a watch, oversee the supply loads, stay behind until everyone else was out, and offer herself as bait when bait was needed. After every engagement she would rush to the medbay to give Force healing or hope or a shoulder to cry on for the last time; each mission was like a _test_ to prove that she was tough enough, good enough to lead. A ridiculous thought in his opinion, because if she wasn't she wouldn't have been made a Jedi, but he hadn't mentioned it because she was practically his match in stubbornness and would only contradict him. Only unlike him, she would push herself and push her men until they were all at their limits, and then she'd let them back off while she just kept going and going. In the four months since Geonosis she had yet to collapse from exhaustion, but Zach suspected it was only a matter of time.

He leaned next to her and watched the chaos below. Three days without combat. Three days where they wouldn't be doing anything, where their brothers were _dying_ and they were just sitting back like they didn't have a care in the world, but at least there could be time to rest, time to prep those shinies for the reality of combat as opposed to the glossy misconceptions they all received during training, even under sergeants like Tervho and Apma. His men deserved a little respite. His general, he knew, deserved it more, and now she was stuck doing negotiations and fussing over an apprentice. He didn't know how it was, having an apprentice, but on Kamino there were a few of the younger brothers whom he used to give advice to. Sometimes they'd get annoying the way they flocked around and asked for help or peppered him with questions, and even though they were little and didn't know any better he would sometimes get so upset that he'd snap at them. Apma never got that way around them, and he felt terrible afterwards but had no idea how to emulate the calm he seemed to always possess. Having an apprentice all the time could only be worse.

They stayed that way in silence for a moment longer. Zach wasn't sure what to say to comfort her, so he hoped that eventually she would start talking and he'd be able to come up with something. And she did indeed speak first.

"I can't do this," she murmured. "I can't keep this up."

That was what he had been trying to tell her every time she pushed herself too far, and he bluntly told her so.

"I know, Captain, and I thank you for that. But it's not just that anymore. I'm not ready for a Padawan. Up until three months ago I _was_ a Padawan. And they only made me a Jedi because there wasn't anyone who could train me and there's a war on and they're so desperate that they just rushed me into this. Well, I get that we need more Jedi, but I can't _train_ one. Not yet. I'm not ready."

She looked terribly depressed, and though he wouldn't admit it to Patch or even Apma, he didn't like seeing her like that just as much as he didn't like seeing kaminiise with needles. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

She sighed. "Go ahead."

"If you don't mind me saying so, I can't believe that you're the same General Swiftwater who dropped from a five-story balcony into a literal nest of droids, risking her life not only from the fall but also in the battle, because there was a microscopic chance that she could save the half-dozen men down there. And this was _before_ she was knighted."

The general rolled her eyes. "That's different."

"How?" It was a challenge, and he waited for her to rise to meet it.

"How? It's different because that was a rescue mission. A rescue mission to save _me_ and _my Master_, and that last bit didn't work out too well, did it? Those men were going to give their lives in the hopes that I could keep mine, and for what? So I could just go on with business as usual, so none of the monsters could come in and scare lil' old me, as if nothing had ever happened? I wasn't going to let them die because I was too wrapped up with my own survival to care." She was standing up now, glaring at him formidably.

He smiled. "That's the General Swiftwater we all know and love. Where have you been?"

The Jedi shoved him a little. "It's not that simple, Zach. I've got to teach this kid how to be a Jedi."

"And with all your combat experience, you shouldn't have a problem."

"Oh, please, you know there's more to being a Jedi than fighting."

"Such as…."

"You've got be compassionate, first of all. And empathic, wise, clever, stuff like that. Not to mention actually using the Force."

"Okay, well, I don't know about other Jedi, but you refuse to leave us alone, so that's the compassionate bit….Wisdom is something I guess everybody learns for himself….Clever shouldn't be a problem for you—"

"Really?"

He ignored the sarcastic edge to her voice. Usually he was all seriousness, but every now and again he got a chance to kid around, and he didn't take that lightly. "Yeah, you're always coming up with those crazy schemes of yours, and empathic…you've wandered into my head to make sure I'm fine and not trying to hide an injury because I'm, as you put it, a 'super command clone and must set a good example' enough times for that to be easy, too. And any Jedi can use the Force."

The Jedi shook her head, trying not to laugh at his summing-up of the whole of a Jedi's training with a few short statements. She had a pretty good sense of humor. "How do you always know what to say to make me feel better?"

"You can thank the Kaminoans for that, I guess. Looks like they're not useless after all. Now, why don't you get some rest, I'll greet our new recruits."

"Oh no you don't, Zach. I thought we had made a deal on this—we cover orientation _together_. I'm talking to them with you, verstehen?"

"Glad to hear you're feeling better."

**_Hangar Bay of the _Indomitable_, dead space, 0905 hours Coruscant Time_**

The hangar was a zoo.

Of course, most of the time brothers could be a bit…primal, almost, like they were evolving backwards before her very eyes, but this was absolute chaos.

"Now what?" asked Chuckles, always the downer. (His name was meant sarcastically.)

Heavyweight shrugged. "Stick to regs, find an officer." He took a step forward and would have been mowed down by a passing plunk droid were it not for a certain _vod_ yanking him back at the last minute. "I didn't know those things had a speed mode."

"You're welcome," she replied snarkily, taking a hand off his shoulder.

"Hey, I was getting to it, sis, cool your jets. Thank you very much for saving me from an unfortunate end with a runaway droid."

She smiled behind her helmet, even though they couldn't see. Vode knew without looking when you were happy or upset or horsing around. "You know I'm just messing with you, Heavyweight. So,"—and here she indicated the activity beyond their rapidly departing ship—"do you still want to find an officer in that mess?"

David chimed in then. "I think it would make a great subject for a drawing, actually."

His four _vode_ rolled their eyes and responded in unison, "You think everything would make a great subject for a drawing."

Despite this less-than-supportive response, she had always thought that he was right about what was a great subject; or perhaps it was that his skills would make any subject great. It was a shame the way things were; if they had been different, he would've been a top-notch artist, they knew.

A long, sharp whistle cut through the cacophony of sounds in the hangar, and simultaneously everyone shut up and turned to stare at a blond woman up on the balcony, who was waiting patiently for silence.

"Alright, I need all medical supplies down in the medbay by way of the aft entrance." Her voice carried without her shouting, somehow, something she had never seen before. "Fuel cells go into storage, kindly use the fore doors over there. Starboard gate down here is for other assorted supplies: foodstuffs, weaponry, equipment, please see one of the quartermasters for a more complete list and storage room numbers for your load if you cannot find it yourself. Engineer Kaz over—wave your hand, Kaz, so everyone can see you—Kaz knows where spare parts for all models of all craft go, please send _one _person to check where your load is headed. If he's swamped, just find Sergeant Cap, leader of Swoop Squadron, he should know almost everything about that. And if we could get our newest members to line up in front of the captain for assignments and orientation, please, I'll be down there in a second. Carry on."

And then, something pretty cool happened. The woman got up onto the railing, spread out her hands for balance, crouched down, and jumped…

…and landed solidly on the floor with a small somersault, popping up on her feet besides a brother in yellow kama and pauldron—the captain. He didn't seem in the least bit surprised by his general's antics.

"There's your superior officer, Heavyweight," joked '88. (They'd tried naming him before, but nothing seemed to fit right, and he'd assured them that he'd have a name when he'd found one.)

They lined up behind the other squad, and she shifted a little so she could get a good look at the two officers. She was shorter than her brothers, like Sergeant Tervho was, so she had to strain to see them both. The captain held himself sternly, appraising them all like a set of deeces which would either work well or malfunction suddenly in the field, and he wasn't about to take any chances. There was something familiar about him. Their general also observed them carefully, though her gaze was softer and, come to think of it, unreadable. She walked up to the first trooper in the line, studying him for so long that he shook, not enough for a normal person to notice, but to a clone, and perhaps a Jedi, it was pretty clear.

"Helmet off." The trooper hurriedly removed his bucket. "Name?"

"CT 04—"

She shook her head and spoke patiently, as if to a student who had erred in some way that was both mildly disappointing but easily forgiven. "No, that's your number. I asked for a name. My name is General Swiftwater, but my friends call me by my first name, Sayn-Linn, or my nickname, Sals. Captain Zach is right behind me. What's your name?"

This was unusual. Didn't every general use his or her troopers' numbers on the field? Wouldn't using a name just confuse things, since numbers were engraved in their helmet transponders and armor tallies and names were only in one's memory? Sure, Vhon'buir had used names rather than numbers, and in some cases had given names herself, but that was different. She was _Vhon'buir_; she cared, and as she explained to them, not everyone could, so they shouldn't get there hopes up for something that might not happen. This exchange didn't make much sense to her, but she wasn't going to question a Jedi's motives.

Apparently neither was the subject of her scrutiny, because he quickly responded, "Backup, ma'am." The general nodded and moved to the next brother. If she noticed how Backup practically let out a sigh of relief, she had the grace to pretend she didn't.

One by one they took off their helmets and told her their names, some quietly, some boldly, and some just with boredom. Then she moved to '88, already without his bucket, and Bluebird tried not to panic for her brother.

"And yours?"

"I…I'm sorry, ma'am."

The general tilted her head. "What about?"

"Ma'am, he doesn't have a name," Bluebird explained while her brother stuttered nervously, making a point to take off her helmet and stay at attention. "We've tried to name '88 before, but we haven't found anything that fits him right enough, ma'am."

There were a couple gasps from the other squad when they saw she was a girl. The captain seemed…not _surprised_, really, more like he had been expecting her but not quite this way. Now she was certain she'd seen him somewhere, and not in the sense that she'd seen a brother who acted a lot like him. She wondered if he'd seen her or her sisters before deployment but maybe wasn't expecting her to be dark-haired.

"Ah. Terribly sorry to hear that, '88." She pushed these thoughts away as the Jedi turned to her, the last one in line. She had bright green eyes that seemed to be able to pierce right into one's skull, with or without their bucket. For all she knew, she probably could. The exact extents of a Jedi's powers were never explained fully. "And your name is?"

"Ma'am, my brothers call me Bluebird, ma'am."

"Excellent." The Jedi strode to the front of the troopers, leaving Bluebird to wonder just what was so excellent. "I'd like to formally welcome you to the 49th Defense Corps, and welcome you aboard the _Indomitable_. As you can probably guess, we do a good deal of defensive operations here. For the first month of the war we helped hold Geonosis, stopping a number of attacks by the Separatists as well as quelling multiple uprisings by the people. More recently we've been assigned defensive operations in installations such as Cambodia, Selecta, and Zuborte Ma, as well as operations around and on planets themselves. The task of guarding civilian populations and targets of military interest is an important one, and we expect full cooperation and strict obedience from all troopers."

Captain Zach stepped forward then and began what was no doubt an oft-repeated speech. "Now, there are times when you'll be asked to come up with ideas on your own, think of things yourself, and while that's fine and well and we want you to do whatever necessary to keep our charges safe, there will be plenty of times when we'll give orders that you _must_ follow, no matter how ridiculous they might seem." He lingered on the word "ridiculous" for a moment, as if he'd had to follow such orders many times himself. "We follow all standard regulations in your manuals and flash training here, but there are a few new rules we made for ourselves.

"Rule #1: No brawling, especially not with the pilots. I'd suggest that for now you stay away from them; they're a rather nasty bunch anyhow.

"Rule #2: Do not disturb General Swiftwater while she's meditating. That's when she comes up with her more 'interesting' ideas."

The general herself rolled her eyes at his choice of words and interrupted, "Rule #3, stay away from the blocks of wood. They're the Captain's sanity incarnate, and it would be _terrible_ if he lost his mind."

This outburst confounded Bluebird to no end, though she was careful to not show it. Jedi were distant, mystical, omniscient. They did not crack jokes that made the captain pretend he hadn't heard a thing, they did not ask for clones' names and use them instead of designations, and they most certainly didn't _banter_ with people, unless it was with other Jedi and about some archaic aspect of Jedi philosophy which no one outside of the Order would find funny or amusing or anything but confusing. Then again, maybe all that was only true about older Jedi; their general seemed pretty young, maybe a little older than they were physically, although the clone had never really seen many normal humans and wasn't exactly sure how they aged. It was possible that Jedi were all carefree and stuff when they were young, so that when they finally reached the height of their powers or whatever they'd be focused and all. They never stopped learning, right? So somewhere in there, there had to be something exempting them from being overly serious until Unit 27 in their course of studies.

"Rule #3: No gambling of any kind while on-duty. And there will be absolutely NO strip poker, on-duty OR on your own time. I don't care what any other trooper tells you, you will remain completely clothed every time you step outside your barracks, and if you don't you _will_ be punished."

Bluebird could guess why he didn't want them playing strip poker.

"Rule #4: Whatever happens, your safety and that of those you are specifically tasked with protecting matters more to us than the completion of any abstract mission. If things look bleak, you are to pull out to a more strategic location unless we order you specifically to stay where you are. Do I make myself clear here?"

"Sir, yessir!"

Another unorthodox rule. Nothing in the 49th seemed to make any sense. Bluebird knew what was expected of her—dying for your superiors, for your brothers, was an accepted practice. She would gladly do it, as would anyone, and yet here was a brother telling her to preserve herself? Why?

If the Jedi decided to peer into her thoughts at that moment, she again said nothing to indicate that she had. Instead she came beside the Captain and said, "We received our newest assignment last night. The neutral planet of Hevoi has claimed sovereignty over their largest moon, Sava, for as far back as recorded history tells us. For the most part they have allowed the people of Sava to govern themselves. Recently, however, they stated their intent to negotiate their independence and join our cause. This has caused a declaration of war to be made by the Hevoi High Council. Currently, Sava is experiencing a military blockade by Hevoi, and being a planet mostly devoid of agriculture and reliant on trade for food, it won't be long before the people begin to starve."

"Our job is simple enough." The Captain was speaking this time. Bluebird began to see a pattern in their orientation: General Swiftwater would introduce the topic, Captain Zach would put it in ways that they would understand because he knew how his brothers thought. _But not how I think_, she mused. _Vhon'buir taught us to think differently on our own, Captain. Were you taught the same?_

"General Swiftwater will be negotiating with representatives of the governments of both peoples. I'll be with her on board the leading blockade vessel. Neither planet is much prepped for war, so if things go sour we should be able to rush off that ship and scatter the Hevoi Navy with minimal casualties to either party. From there, we land on Sava and get rid of any hostile military presence—again, _minimum casualties_ to civvies, hostiles, and ourselves. We are currently loading basic supplies, as you can all see. It's not enough for us to last for months, but it'll be enough to hold out while General Skywalker comes in, if it comes to that. We don't want this to get ugly, but if it does we make it clear that we don't want to hurt anybody more than necessary, just make sure Sava ends up free. If we can do that just by firing a few warning shots above the local militia's heads, then that's all we do. Do you understand?"

"Sir, yessir." This, at least, was clear-cut. Or close enough to it.

"Good. General, do you have their barracks assignments?"

The General looked surprised. "I thought you had them. I had a basic idea, but it's a bit of a moot point…."

Bluebird knew what the problem was. They weren't sure where to put her, and it was screwing up everything for them. _I don't care where I am_, she thought to herself, practically begging in her mind. _I'll do anything you ask if it can help me live. I'll bunk with the men, I survived it for ten years, just don't tell Ko Sai I'm a complete inconvenience and not worth the trouble._

"I assumed you arranged that. I didn't want to make my own list in case it conflicted with yours."

"Oh. Well." She seemed confused for only a moment. "Perhaps we should confer with some of our officers to see where they might be able to fit?"

"Good idea. At ease, men."

They all visibly relaxed at this command. The squad in front turned to huddle together and talk amongst themselves, ignoring them. Not that Bluebird cared, or any of her vode minded, either. She cracked her spine lazily. It was a habit of hers to stand straighter than was really necessary in the presence of a superior officer—she'd discovered from experience that the more respect you showed, the greater your chances of survival with the longnecks-and then relax herself completely when they were gone.

"So, how about the general?" asked Heavyweight, leaning against a supply crate.

"She seems alright," responded David. "She had a pretty large nose, didn't she?"

"Alright? She seemed pretty crazy to me," retorted none other than Chuckles. "She asked us for our names instead of numbers. She was_ joking_ with the captain. She jumped from that balcony like she was just jumping off a crate or something! No sane person does anything like that."

'88 shook his head. "No, she's sane." He sat on the wing of a nearby fighter. "I think that's why she was joking with him in the first place. Maybe that's just the way she makes sure she's sane or something, the way Tervho always used to have a shouting match with Sergeant Apma was nearby—it was her way of proving she wasn't crazy."

"I think you mean how she keeps herself sane, '88. Vhon'buir never said she was _checking_ her sanity; she used to say she was_ keeping_ it. But did you guys notice the tag team deal the two of them were pulling?" They looked at Bluebird like she had lobsters coming out of her ears. "Oh, come on, don't tell me you seriously didn't notice. She'd introduce some topic or something, and then he'd explain it like Sergeant Tervho or Sergeant Bralor would, so you'd understand it easier. It was almost as if he was translating for her."

"That's ridi—"

"Hey, shiny, get your ass off my fekking ship!"

The brother who said this was in the standard pilot's armor, without his bucket. "Standard" was, of course, only a relative term, used because he hadn't exactly made any _real _modifications, but it was heavily personalized. Zebra stripes of yellow-orange ran along his greaves, and fiery embellishments stood out on the shoulder bells. _Orange armor—means a lust for life. Gold is vengeance._ Vhon'buir's voice came from nowhere, informing her of something ridiculous since the unit's colors were no doubt the colors he wore. She noticed that the back of his regulation-length hair stuck up oddly in a way Bluebird couldn't place and yet couldn't dismiss either. He was glaring formidably at '88, who'd jumped off the wing as if the fire on this pilot's shoulders had come to life and jumped onto the fighter.

"What the haran were you doing on my fighter, you little cha'kaar? Do you have any kriffin' idea how long it took me to fix that up after kriffing _Hailfire_ blasted it into an asteroid? Oh, frak it, I don't let the Jetii even _touch_ my fighter, what the fierfek made you think I'd let a nijlin shiny like you put your puny shebs all over the hull?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Oh, you're sorry? You're _sorry_? That makes it all right, it doesn't matter at all that you scratched the paint! You completely frakked up my design! Shit, I'll need a new freaking paint job now! I'm gonna splatter your brains all over the walls!"

"Hey!" Bluebird brought herself between them. "He _said_ he was sorry. He didn't mean to scratch the paint, alright? Udesii, vod, udesii."

"Oh, piss off, peedunky."

Bluebird was getting ready to jump on him, but '88 put a calming hand on her shoulder. "Udesii yourself, Blue. Kaysh mirsh solus, that's all."

It was meant as a joke, to defuse the situation because that was what '88 did when everyone else lost their heads. She saw the change in the pilot's expression, however, and knew he didn't take it that way. _Bad move, brother, you just pissed him off more. This is not going to end well._

The pilot made a move to shove her out of the way and slug '88. Instead of standing her ground, she moved with his push, stepping backwards and bending her knee before rebounding with every ounce of strength he'd shown and then some, bringing one fist up to hit him in the back of the head. Instinctively he jerked an elbow backwards, and she ducked, going to sweep his legs out from under him. As he fell he pulled '88 down with him, and they began wrestling; one of the pilot's mates grabbed her from behind, and she head butted him off. As she turned and drew back to punch him she felt a peculiar sensation throughout her body, as if an invisible hand had grabbed her armor and yanked her backwards. She and '88 went one way, while the two pilots were thrown another. The Jedi was standing between them, holding out her hands and glaring at all four of the combatants. Bluebird felt like melting into a neat puddle of fuel, so she would at least be unnoticed among the other stains, but she couldn't leave her brother alone. Thus, the situation she now found herself facing.

"Who started this?" demanded General.

The pilot began, "That sleemo over there—"

Captain cut him off, running up from behind General. His glare would've melted a full battalion of clankers, complete with tank support, no problem. "Cap, cut the attitude, _now_."

"Yes, _sir_." The sarcasm was barely disguised in his voice. "I'm sorry for using cuss words in front of a 'lady'. The shiny over there was sitting on my fighter. I told him to get off. He and his little girlfriend—"

"_Sergeant_," warned General.

"Whatever, sir. The two of them were insulting me, and the girl hit me, so I fought back. That's all I frak—freaking did."

She lowered her arms and turned to them. "Is this true?"

Bluebird snapped to attention. "Sir, '88 did sit on his fighter, but he completely overreacted to it. '88 didn't mean to be rude or 'scratch the paint' or anything. That was all an accident. He was the one to insult us first. I was getting a bit upset, so to calm me down '88 joked, 'Kaysh mirsh solus'—'His brain cell's lonely.' He only meant it to calm everyone down. But the Sergeant was going to hit him. I was just trying to defend my vod, and instinct got the better of me. It's my fault, I know. I'm sorry, sir."

The General looked at them with obvious disappointment. _Shit. I won't even make a two on my first mission, let alone a four point five. I blew it. I'm going to be sent back, I know it._

"Well, then, '88, Spin, since neither of you started this fight but you both took part in it, you both get five demerits each for brawling. As for the two of you…." She sighed heavily. "Cap, I'm really disappointed in you. This is the third fight you've participated in in the past two weeks. Not counting that food fight. You've also been shirking regular guard duties, smuggling drinks into the barracks, instigated fights you didn't take part in, and I don't think I need to mention what happened the last time we had newcomers. What am I going to do with you?"

Captain stepped forward slyly. "If I may make a suggestion, sir." He whispered the rest in her ear. The General's expression went from frustration to a sneakier look.

"Brilliant, Captain. Absolutely brilliant. I think the finer points can be told in a less public setting…?"

"I'll take care of it all, sir."

They shared a look of mutual glee at something, and Bluebird was reminded of the looks Vhonte used to share with her cousin Rav when they were planning something the Kaminoans wouldn't like (a common enough occurrence). Those quick glances had once filled her with joy, and if the Kaminoans noticed they would usually become very scared for themselves; but this wasn't Kamino, and she wasn't sure who would be happy and who would be pissed off because of that look, and she didn't know if she wanted to find out.

"In that case…." She turned to Bluebird. "What do you know about piloting a G9 Rigger Freighter?"

"I know the basic specifications, sir. If I may ask, sir, who besides smugglers uses that class of ship?"

"Anakin Skywalker, for one, the nutter….Anyways, Kaz? Where is he? Kaz! Ah, there you are. I need you to teach this trooper everything she'll need to know about copiloting our G9, and I need it done by the time we drop out of hyperspace. Cap will be piloting." She forged ahead despite protests from both Cap and Bluebird herself. "And I need the both of you to play nice while we're there. You also get ten demerits each. That is all." And just like that she turned and left.

_It could be worse,_ she thought glumly. _Not by much, since this is only delaying the inevitable, but still._ And she followed the engineer to the freighter to begin her lessons.

* * *

><p>And that's the first chapter! Not as editted as I'd like, but I was busy working on rewriting a scene in the next chap which was totally biting me in the shebs...<p>

I feel really bad about this, but I made a big mistake in my last AN. CaptainKale has, I don't think, ever seen this story. Aurora Lunar 0Love This0 was kind enough to help me, and not get upset when I made that mistake. Sorry again!

On a side note, Rav Bralor is also canon. Read the RC novels for more (she doesn't come in till the third, though), or check Wookiepedia.

Anyone who can guess the reference to _A Christmas Story_ gets an internet cookie!


	3. Where Suspicions are Made

Chapter 2: Where Very Reasonable, Very Obvious Suspicions Are Formed

* * *

><p><strong><em>Bridge of the <em>Indomitable_, en route to Hevoi system, 1300 hours CT_**

Zach looked out at the phantasm of colors that made up hyperspace and tried not to chuckle. It was morally wrong to admit he had derived a pleasure from knocking Cap off his ridiculously high "you-can't-make-me-do-shit" pedestal of self-glorification, but it was lying to say he didn't. Thus he declined to comment on the issue and thanked his lucky stars for B'arin Apma. The man was an absolute genius.

And of course, Swiftwater's idea of having the two of them pilot the ship? Crazy, he knew; if any other general had assigned such a punishment he might've thought the pair would strangle each other, but it _was_ kind of funny as well, and he trusted his general's abilities enough to believe she knew what she was doing. Chances were, everything would be alright. Mostly. If not, then he'd worry about it later, but now it seemed pretty amusing.

He absentmindedly checked that the power cells for all his weapons were fully charged. Most would consider a DC-17 rifle, a regular deece, and a pistol overkill for a diplomatic mission, but he wasn't taking any chances, and besides, he'd probably leave everything but the pistol on their escort, with Cap and Bluebird.

Now, that brought back memories.

He hadn't actually_ seen_ what had happened between Tervho, Bralor, Apma'buir, and Ko Sai, but legend and his knowledge of his father-figure was clear enough for him to surmise what had gone on. That, and he had an eidetic memory, like all his brothers, so he at least knew how B'arin had acted before and after the fact. As he stood there, he recalled the events to himself.

Before joining the Cuy'val Dar and disappearing from the galaxy for eight years, Apma and Tervho had been in some sort of relationship, which ended badly. Very badly. So badly that Apma'buir had only said, "I don't blame her for hating me." And Apma, while not always wearing his heart on his sleeve, did answer their questions, even when he had trouble putting the answers right. It didn't take a Jedi to figure out the situation had been nothing short of disastrous.

According to Rav Bralor, Tervho's cousin, the second Tervho had seen Apma on Kamino she had punched him, hard, and broken his jaw. After expressing some surprise at her non-dead status, (evidently Tervho had disappeared a little sooner than everyone else, almost as soon as Fett himself) Apma had merely mumbled he deserved it, and more. She'd promised to one day give the rest to him.

A few months passed, and Apma began training them, while Tervho had continued to rib and berate and argue with him at every oppurtunity. B'arin had actually been teaching his group of command clones some trickier hand-to-hand moves when Bralor had run in one day, panting. "Apma, I need you to do me a huge favor," she'd said.

He'd looked at her out of the corner of one eye. "You're not one to ask for favors, Bralor. Especially not from me."

"You kidding? It's not for me, it's for Vhon, and I already owe Kal'ika enough favors. Those aiwha-baits' client asked for a small task force, different genes or something, and they really screwed up."

"How badly?"

"Not quite as bad as they did with the Nulls, but they're still up for reconditioning now. Vhonte's going crazy. She's going to kill someone soon, and while_ I_ think the galaxy could do with fewer kaminiise, I don't want to see the hammer fall on those kids."

By the way he rushed out of the room while she was finishing up, Zach had guessed even then that he'd bathe a Hutt if Vhonte Tervho asked him to. The class was left to sit around and speculate, though supposedly they should've been thrown into chaos without an adult to tell them what to do. (Only normal children were _that_ misbehaved.)

B'arin returned after half an hour or so. He was grim, and unhappy—that much was obvious, but he continued the lesson without comment. A few had whispered theories that night of what had gone on to make him so silent, none of them confirmed, but Zach knew that whatever it was, he'd need comforting.

Apma'buir had been glad to see him, but it was a forced joviality. His smile was too big, for one thing, and strained. He was hiding whatever misgivings he had for Zach's sake, then. But he wasn't so upset as to forget which of his brothers he was; he always knew, somehow. He had some warra nut cookies out for him the minute he walked in, with a tall glass of blue milk next to the plate and everything—his absolute favorite of all the food the sergeants smuggled in. "What's troubling you, Zach?" he'd asked, sitting across from him at his kitchen table.

"Sergeant—"

"B'arin, please. No longneck is going to get upset at you here, ad'ika."

"B'arin, what happened today when Sergeant Bralor came and called you away?"

The older man had frozen mid-bite. He finished chewing slowly and swallowed. "It was just as Rav put it," he finally responded. "The man who requested the army provided Fett for its creation—your creation, really—and he also asked for a smaller task force attached to the army, made of different genes. Similar to the ARCs and commandos, because their purpose would be different from regular infantry, only he requested _specifically_ that their genome come from a female. He wanted them to act as some sort of special ops troops when heavy muscle wouldn't work. Ko Sai obliged, but there were some more…_specific _modifications they made to the donor's DNA, and she insisted that if the first batch didn't turn out right, they'd recondition the lot and stick to Fett clones. Tervho managed to convince her to at least try to train them, and they agreed for a brief period. Now the aiwha-baits have decided to rethink their earlier decision. I convinced them to let the girls live."

He spent several minutes processing that, finishing four cookies before he finally understood it enough to come up with a response. They were designed to be the perfect soldiers, so why would there be any need for different troops from a different source? And what sort of extra modifications needed to be made for females? Girls weren't all that different, not really, at least not from those he'd seen. Female Kaminoans were just as scary as males, and female sergeants were just as tough and sometimes caring as B'arin was. How else could Tervho beat him up?

(By that point, legend of Tervho's flipping out had grown to exaggerate the punch she'd swung into an all-out brawl. Admittedly, if she really wanted to pound Apma flat, she probably still could, but she hadn't. Yet.)

"But B'arin, why did they want to recondition them? And who're they cloned from?"

"Zach….Sometimes things don't make any sense in this galaxy, and when that happens the only thing you can do is try your best to deal with it. Why would those hut'uune want to recondition any of you?"

"Because we don't live up to preset quality control standards." He didn't even realize he was speaking, but it was a response drilled into him. "We were created for one purpose and one alone—to protect and defend the mighty Republic from malevolent forces. We must be able to serve the Republic to the best of our abilities, and if our capacity to serve is not enough to preserve the Republic's way of life and fulfill the wishes of our Jedi commanders, the Senate, and the Chancellor, then we have no reason for existing, and without a reason to exist we must be taken care of as efficiently as is possible. Otherwise we are a hindr…hindrance to our fellows, nuisance to our officers, and a…a waste of the Republic's precious resources."

B'arin was horrified.

"Is that what they shove down your throats during flash-training?" he enunciated quietly. His voice got louder as he continued. "Is that the ossik they tell you, that your only reason for living is to die for the goddamn Republic? That without that purpose, you don't have any _reason_ to live? Is that how they justify killing you?"

"But we don't have any other reasons, B'arin," was his meek utterance.

"Like haran you do! You boys aren't just products, you aren't blasters or weapons, you're_ boys._ You're human beings, goddamn it! The Republic is just a ridiculous, corrupt, dying bureaucracy, it's not worth saving. The _people_, now that's something worth dying for, but those goddamn politicians just keep on focusing on filling their own pockets, that's all they care about! And they're breeding little boys to _die _for it, because no one stops to think that maybe, just _maybe_, they ought to screw the whole thing and just try again! But instead, they're teaching you to be the perfect haar'chak killers! God damn, the Chancellor is—Zach, are you alright?"

His question did not help Zach fight the tears. If he could switch so suddenly from this monster, this raging mad beast he had never seen, into his loving, familiar buir, how quickly might he switch from buir to total stranger? It was a terrifying thought.

Ignoring the chair he'd knocked over when he shot upwards, B'arin walked around the table, picked him up, and sat down with him on his lap. "Ad'ika, what's wrong? Come on, you can tell me these things."

"You're scaring me, buir," he confessed as he furiously rubbed away the water pooling in his eyes. "Don't talk like that." He couldn't think of anything else to say that might keep Apma the way he should be.

He chuckled humorlessly. "You boys scare me all the time. You're so innocent, yet so experienced. So young, yet already old….You shouldn't be stuck in this hellhole. None of you should. But you survive. It always amazes me, how well you can adapt to something this horrific. Doesn't make it right, but, it's better than you not adapting, I guess….Listen, I'm sorry. Forget what I said, alright? Don't worry, I'll try not to scare you like that again. Just so long as you promise me one thing."

"Yes, B'arin?"

"Promise me that, if you outlive whatever war they're sending you towards, that you'll _do something _with your life. That you'll leave something behind for someone to remember you by. That you're not going to just accept your fate the way it is, you'll choose your own path, and you'll help your brothers do the same. You'll do that, right?"

"Of course, buir."

He didn't know then how significant that statement was, and even now he knew there was more to it that he had yet to discover, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that, for several months, he did not see that side of B'arin Apma. But it was always there, lurking in the shadows, and it most often came out on those rare occasions where he took in some form of alcohol, as if the only way for the substance to stay where it was was for something else to leave. He began to see the differences between B'arin Apma the Sergeant and B'arin Apma the Philosopher, and while Zach did not enjoy seeing his sergeant drunk and raging and sometimes sobbing from the force of his emotions, and helping his squadmates drag B'arin to bed after he was out cold and ministering to him as he slept off the brutal hangover he always acquired was also not his cup of caf, he understood that this man was not a monster as he'd originally thought. He merely was trying to cope with his own guilt over…something, and this was the only way he knew how.

Another side of B'arin which he rarely saw was B'arin Apma the Lover. It was a mostly-dead part of him, but sometimes he would wander off to help Tervho train the "girls", and sometimes he would bring one of his own boys to watch them train. Zach, who was perhaps as close to a "favorite" as B'arin had ever had, went the most often, and he'd seen the way B'arin looked at Sergeant Tervho. Whatever they had had between them, he'd wanted it back. Zach wondered if he still did, or if he even saw Tervho anymore now that the war had started.

Now, at least a half a year after he'd last seen the girls training, here she was. B'arin had asked him to take care of her (no doubt out of sentimentality towards Tervho), and take care he would, especially after seeing her file. She was an excellent trooper, really, fair aim, quick on the uptake, skilled with knives and vibroblades, not to mention good marks on most of her academic subjects. He was pretty sure he had seen her specifically training several times, and he was also almost certain she'd done exceptional there, too. And yet, it seemed every few paragraphs in her file contained the line "Considered for reconditioning due to lack of patience" or "Considered for reconditioning due to marksmanship score of 89%" or, his personal favorite, "Considered for reconditioning due to overt attachment to trooper CT 04 6755/3587". The cutoff line for aim was 85% on a normal target range for general troopers (one of the reasons Cap, being a pilot, never was considered for reconditioning for his horrific aim _that_ seriously), 94% for snipers. Lack of patience was never a factor in other's files, either, except maybe Cap again, and unless by "overt attachment" they meant some sort of _unprofessional_ relationship such as civvies often engaged in, that was no grounds for reconditioning. He couldn't imagine any of Tervho's girls getting_ involved_ with one of their hatchmates in the first place, since they were all vode in the end, and he doubted they'd even be particularly adventurous in the world of normal dating, not after the disaster that was their Sergeant's own love life. (Bralor did not loathe Apma, and sometimes she'd come and "gossip" with his boys, mostly about her cousin or her own exploits. She told some impressive war stories, and her knowledge of the other Cuy'val Dar had no equal.) It seemed the Kaminoans were looking for any excuse to get rid of her that they could, because B'arin Apma and Vhonte Tervho, two people who argued over everything, had banded together for long enough to make them look like fools. Of course, Kal Skirata had done the same once, but he had outright _adopted_ the Nulls. They were practically untouchable. Tervho's girls, on the other hand, were not. They only lived because the Kaminoans had made it clear that if they put a toe out of line, they were done for, and so they had threatened them wherever they had a shadow of an excuse to do so. It was sick and twisted, and it made Zach understand why Apma'buir and other sergeants disliked or sometimes outright hated the Kaminoans, when they themselves had nothing to fear from them. The loathing came from the knowledge that they were such control freaks they would use any excuse to exercise their power, even on small children.

An interesting side affect, however, was that, from what he could see, every time they threatened her she would work twice as hard at improving the skill they believed to be too underdeveloped. Immediately after the comment on her marksmanship, her score rose to a solid 95% for normal ranges alone and continued rising for two years straight, though not as drastically. When it was remarked that she was lagging behind on the obstacle courses, she became the best in her age group. Her sense of self-preservation, while remarkable and varied, did not extend to severing her loyalty to her brothers, as the brawl in the hangar had proved to him. Brotherhood and how important it was to someone was something he could never dismiss, not with Apma as his sergeant, and he could tell that she felt it just as strongly as…as anyone, really. She seemed to be a true vod.

"Admiral, Captain, approaching the Hevoi system."

"Pull out of hyperspace on the edge of the system and approach the planet—_slowly_—in realspace. We need them to know we trust them." His weaponry said otherwise, but he was not parting with anything.

"Captain, I appreciate your _valuable_ input, but I am more than capable of directing the flight of our fleet without your help. Why don't you go back to checking your guns?"

Zach didn't need to look to know who it was speaking. Even if the Admiral's voice had sounded remotely like a brother's—which was highly unlikely in more ways than one—no one else ever spoke down to him quite like that.

"I realize this, Admiral Chamragnar. But General Swiftwater made it plain to me that I should remind your men of the plan for our entry. She wants to ensure that everyone is perfectly clear on what we're going to be doing. I'm just carrying out her orders."

"Entering realspace in T minus ten seconds."

"Powering down hyperspace engines."

"Prepping aft thrusters."

"Entering realspace…now."

Suddenly the abstract paints of hyperspace snapped into focus. The star was below them but a good ways away, the planet half that distance with most of the light side turned from them. Sava was above the planet itself, declaring a bright full or near-full moon.

"See those grey lumpy things around the moon? Those are the enemy ships, Captain. From this distance we can't make out any details because—"

"Yes, I know, Admiral. I've seen blockades before. Can I get a magnification on the moon and planet, please?"

"Of course, Captain, it's a simple process…."

He tuned out the admiral's annoyingly condescending voice to preserve his sanity, and after a moment a trooper handed them a datapad with the requested view. Zach increased the size until he made out some of the ships; he furrowed his brow in confusion.

"Hold up, Admiral." He pointed out a ship. "Are you seeing this, too, sir, or is it just me?"

Something he never thought would happen, did. The Admiral _listened_ to Zach, then went pale and stopped in his self-informed, overconfident speeches before starting to sweat. "Oh, shit."

Zach flicked on his commlink with a sigh. He'd been hoping he was wrong. "General, are you there?"

A pause, and the crackle of mild static. "What is it, Zach, I'm up to my elbows in the G9. Stupid finicky cross-wired engine—"

"You'd better come up here and see this…."

**_Hangar of the_ Indomitable_, edge of Hevoi System, 1357 hours_**

Cap knew he wasn't supposed to in any way molest the shiny, but it was very tempting to disregard orders and go ahead anyway. First off, she'd really slammed him in the back of the head, right where his scar from a particularly nasty Genosian revolt still tingled sometimes, and he now had a killer headache. Second, she _noticed_ his headache and had the audacity to ask if he was good to fly. He could've written a whole damn training manual on just about any craft he'd ever fekking flown, with every nuance and trouble clearly outlined and twice as well as the actual manuals, and she was asking if he was _alright to fly_. The bitch couldn't have been stupider, he thought.

And on top of it, his best friend was the one to show her how to copilot the damn G9. His best, _only _friend, actually.

But most importantly, he was really pissed at the threat old Zach had made to him when the crowds had cleared. The bastard had threatened to not allow him any contact to his not-quite-official-but-close-enough-to-it girlfriend. He wasn't sure yet if he'd follow through, but _technically _there was an occasionally ignored reg on how close you were permitted to be to civvies. It did not permit snogging, and even though Twaura Minn was a gun-for-hire who had sold her services to the Republic enough times for her name to be on the army's payroll, he doubted he'd get away with it if his superiors made a point to discourage it.

The bottom line: He really needed to vent some of this damning steam, and the shiny seemed like a good enough target, only he'd be screwed if he did. It was, as Kaz would put it, a fierfekking catch-22.

Okay, so maybe the grease monkey wouldn't cuss, but Cap had no problems taking his artistic liscense.

The aforementioned bitch strapped herself in, and seemed to look for something to say. "So."

"What?"

She hesitated for a moment, and then went on. "Hey, listen, I'm sorry about earlier. '88 didn't mean to scratch the paint, seriously. And I was just trying to defend him and all because it looked like you were going to hurt him, and I don't care who you are, I just don't let that happen. But I didn't mean to get you in trouble. Truce?" She stuck out a hand with a friendly smile.

He looked her up and down again. Other than the ridiculous, navy-blue bird design on her back (she might as well have painted a target there and save herself the trouble of the painstaking work, in his opinion), her armor was so white it hurt his eyes. Her own were a dark color, and her hair was black. Too black. Probably dyed, then. He wondered what di'kut had come up with the idea of cloning a woman. Not that he had anything against women, not women like Twaura at least, but this was ridiculous.

"Look, you're a di'kut and an ossik-head. You have no idea what war is like. You have no idea what I am like. You'll probably get your skinny shebs blown to Yavin the first time you're in a real engagement. I don't have time to be babysitting you. And if I hadn't been threatened with not being allowed to see my girlfriend again, I wouldn't _be_ babysitting you, and I'd have already saved the tinnies the trouble of trying to hit your puny ass. So save your breath, shiny." (These were only the curses he'd consciously sprinkled in, but there were several others that had slipped out, as always.)

She turned to face forward, inhaling through her nose and exhaling through her mouth with closed eyes. It was a gesture he'd seen the Jetii employ several times; he wondered briefly if it was a female thing, but doubted it.

Her next words were chilly, and had lost their patronizing air. "You're Sergeant Cap, right? Based on your lack of respect for Captain Zach and General Swiftwater, I assume you won't mind too much if I drop the ranks and pleasantries for a moment. I'm not like the rest of the cannon fodder you normally get with a new squad, and not just because of my gender. I was trained almost exclusively by Sergeants Vhonte Tervho and Rav Bralor, a pair of the toughest Mando women alive. I've been inside the Killing House at Kamino and seen all twenty-seven basic room arrangements_ and_ the five most difficult variants. I can scale a forty-meter wall in fifteen seconds flat. I know everything there is to know about vibroblades as well as any other knife in common use in the galaxy. There has never been a lock I've met which I can't jury rig, jimmy, pick, fiddle, or blow open, and if there is it's at least a king's ransom, probably more. I was threatened with reconditioning no less than twice a month when the longnecks were feeling generous, and they were by no means idle threats. But you know what? It doesn't matter, because I'm still here. I survived, and I don't need no Sithspitting sumbitch to look after me. So please, get off your high horse and let's get this over with."

He snorted in response. " 'Sithspitting sumbitch'? That's really the best you've got? Were you on the pissah when those fine, fancy Sergeants of yours gave the fierfekking cussing lesson, because no self-respecting Mando swears that shabla."

The terms used next by her were decidedly foul. In fact, the only one which most editors of highly-regarded works would deem fit for public consumption was a conspicuous and insincere "sir" tacked on at the end, no doubt as a force of habit.

"Better," he acquiesced. "Nice smattering of that fekking Hutt slang at the end, but Sithspawn, you've gotta be able to improvise, and get away from the Mando'a a bit more. Mando is only for the serious shit, di'kut." He proceeded to give a demonstration that would make some bartenders blush. (Those in the seediest parts of the Rim, and some in the slums of major planets like Coruscant, even, would only raise an eyebrow, if anything, but it was by far not the worst he could do.)

What prevented their conversation from becoming a lesson in Proper Profanity emPloyment (Triple P, as he called it) was the timely arrival of Swiftwater and Zach. The clone had his helmet under his arm, and the lightsaber-swinging peedunky was carrying her favorite toy, a Long-Range Communication/Control Device, or Lorcced in grunt slang. What it looked like now was a flat, metallic device with several odd protrusions, but with the press of a button it could hug her ear and, if necessary, extend an eye screen. It was similar to their HUD in that it allowed conversations which no one could hear, if she kept her voice low enough, and the eye screen showed scrolls of intel of all sorts, but it was smaller, lighter, and without nearly as much data and no concussion protection. It also used subvocalization via the eustachian tube rather than actual sound, meaning if she wasn't afraid of looking crazy (though she already was) she could talk to herself and they'd hear it. Cap called it a di'kut buy'ce, or "idiot helmet" in Mando. He had little respect for jetii.

"Well?" he asked. He was vaguely interested in what had been more important than fixing the rear thrusters, a task he'd had to complete alone, because _someone_ needed flying lessons, and there was no karking way any other mechanic was brave enough or stupid enough to try and work with him.

Zach fixed him with a hard stare. "Respect, Sergeant."

"Fine. What's gone wrong _this_ time, 'sir'?"

"The blockade isn't of Hevoi's local navy." Swiftwater's face was grave. "Those are Separatist ships. Hevoi's joined them."

"Well, this day just keeps getting better and better," he exaggerated, throwing in a Nikto explicative afterwards. It was a rather nice language for cussing, because he could use a mild insult and people would think he'd just asked the Chancellor to kark himself. The words for _that_ were even better.

"Cap, could just you keep your comments to yourself and try to think for a minute about what this means for the rest of the galaxy? Sava's mining and industry are _invaluable_. That's the whole reason it was colonized and terraformed in the first place. If the Seps have control over that moon, they'll build dozens of droid factories there, they'll have hundreds of new tinnies within a week, and the people will be worked to death. Not to mention, Hevoi's jungles contain some of the most effective cures for some of the most deadly diseases. Fifteen varieties of the Shadow Virus can be cured using plants found only on Hevoi. Imagine if they find another scientist crazy enough to try to release a sickness like that into the galaxy, and they can vaccinate all of the Separatist planets."

"So what you're saying, sir, is that we are screwed—sorry, _in very large trouble _now that the Seps have the system?" If the shiny hadn't been such a shiny, she'd know the correction was unnecessary, because while Cap was the worst in terms of swearing (and there _were_ benefits to being the self-proclaimed Bastard King of Cussing), there were others who indulged in it more frequently and more potently than _that_ in front of officers, to mixed responses depending on the situation. He guessed that after being threatened so often, one became a bit more cautious around the men "in charge".

"Exactly, trooper." The Captain slipped on his helmet, hiding his grim look from view. The shiny hurried to put on her own bucket. Copycat. "Which is why we're here. Though I'm pretty sure that it's a trap."

"It's always a trap, Zach."

"It sure as hell is now." Zach actually whacked him upside the head, and he swore in response—private channel so that the general couldn't hear, but those who mattered could. Zachie rarely resorted to violence in disciplining his troops, even for Cap, and this was only proof of what he'd actually started to suspect: They were all too frakking tense and high-strung from the past months to be much help for much longer. A week on Corrie would do them well, all of them. He'd never actually been to Galactic City. Twaura was probably on Triple Zero now, assuming she wasn't taking a job. Always on the run, those bounty hunters. Frakking inconvenience, but it also seemed to make her twenty times sexier when he did see her.

When they pulled out of the hangar, the pilot saw that they'd been right. Shit, it was an expensive-looking blockade, meaning they really wanted to keep the system. He also noted a few ships around the planet itself, and pointed them out without swearing at all, a rare show of seriousness. "Looks like the Seppies don't trust the civvies to play nice."

Zach just said "Huh," like he'd think about it but wasn't ready to believe it. Swiftwater nodded, however, in agreement. "I sense there is more to this than just a less-than-cooperative Sava."

"No shit, Sherlock," he muttered into the private channel. She had the Lorcced in her ear, however, and judging by the look she shot him, she'd heard. Jedi could be so kriffing stuck-up sometimes.

Docking in the hangar of the control ship was surprisingly easy. Not only surprising, it was also unnatural. He checked to make sure his deece was on his belt. Some serious ossik was about to go down. He'd say he could feel it, but then it would sound like the whole Jedi crap, and he wasn't going through that can of worms again.

Swiftwater made her way to the platform, and the hangar, first. Zach hesitated for a couple seconds. After some indecision, it seemed, he removed his heavy-duty rifle to pass it to Cap and handed off his regular blaster to the shiny. "Hey, watch her shebs, Flyboy, you might need to make a quick exit," he warned, private channel. Cap nearly did a double take. If the 'tain was using triple P, they were all screwed. Then he saluted them both, grimly, and left, adding over one shoulder, "Have fun, you two."

They were alone.

They were alone, and their earlier argument was the furthest thing from his mind.

"We are so dead," he voiced, more because it was true than because it was fun to say. And he wasn't too far off, either.

**_Hangar Bay of _Subdue_, Separatist Control Ship, Enforcer Fleet Beta, Above Sava, Hevoi System, 1411 hours_**

Hevoi High Council Chairman Chlors waited impatiently for the Jedi to walk down the ramp and officially enter his ship—and his jurisdiction. She was the last thing that stood in his way for complete control, over Sava, over Hevoi, over those who thought they were so high and mighty with their ideals of free elections and democracy. Power only belonged to those who could use it, and knew how. Soon they'd see. They'd all see. All he had to do was dispose of her fleet and wrap up the platitude-laden mystic like a holiday nerf, and he'd be done with his end of the bargain.

Finally,_ finally_, someone came down the ramp. Two someones, actually. One was the Jedi—slightly shorter than he'd expected, and younger, too, smiling naively at him. Right on her heels was a figure in white-and-yellow armor, dented yet still taken care of, with some sort of black fabric hanging from its belt like a skirt. Also attached to this belt was a holster with a sleek pistol inside. A helmet, decorated by intricate yellow swirls above the eyes and with a black T-visor, completed the outfit.

So _that_ was a clone. He'd heard of them, of course, the abominations, but he'd never had occasion to see one in person. This one looked fairly menacing, which could be because it was or Chlors was just over-thinking things. True, it was an unexpected variable; however, that didn't mean his planning would all go to waste. In fact, it was possible he would be rewarded even more for delivering one of _those_ alive.

The Jedi bowed to him, and he returned it, bringing his attention back to the present. "Chairman Chlors, it is an honor to meet you in person. I am General Sayn-Linn Swiftwater, and this is Captain Zach, who will be accompanying me."

The Captain gave a sharp salute. "Sir." Its voice was crisp, military perfection, even more so than a droid's.

He nodded, only vaguely acknowledging it. "Welcome aboard my ship. Representative Mahla is already waiting in the conference room. Let's not keep her waiting, shall we?" His own voice was smooth, betraying not a trace of guile. They followed, oblivious.

As planned, the conference room was completely empty. "Sir, Representative Mahla was called away briefly for a discussion with other government officials. She should be returning shortly." The protocol droid didn't even know he was lying, just awaited his orders. That was the advantage of droids, he knew, which was why he'd agreed to this deal in the first place. They couldn't give you away in the presence of a Jedi.

"Oh. That's quite a shame. If you will excuse me, General, I need to make a brief stop of my own—nature calls," he said with a laugh.

"Take your time, Chairman."

Fools, he thought when the door was closed. He made his way to the command center on one side of the room. They didn't even realize they were now trapped. And soon, they'd be completely under his control.

* * *

><p>I feel like a hypocrite now. I teased sachariah for ending chap 3 of "When Night Falls" with a cliffhanger, and here I go doing the same. Oh well. I actually thought the intro to the action would be a lot longer, but it's nice and short-ish.<p>

I really loved the scene in _Triple Zero_ where Skirata firsts meets the Nulls, because I thought little clones would be really cute (and not just 'cause they look adorable, but I originally got the idea from TCW), so I included Little Zach in here. And Cap! Who is perhaps my fave "supporting" clone of the 49th, besides Tip-Tap and Patch. :D. He really just says what he wants, when he wants, and I think I went overboard with the psychological reasoning behind that...

Oh, and the quote was "They looked at her like she had lobsters coming out of her ears." I'm disappointed how no one got that, but oh well.

And while I'm very happy about the consistent reviewers (love you, sachariah, Queen, laloga & ALLT!), I always enjoy other people telling me I did a good job, too...


	4. Suspicions are Confirmed

Chapter 3: Suspicions are Confirmed

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><p><strong><em>Conference Room 18-C, Separatist Flagship<em> Subdue_, Holding Fleet Beta, Above Sava, Hevoi System, 1425 hours_**

The thing that first tipped Zach off was Cap pointing out the ships around Hevoi.

No, that was wrong; he knew something was up from the moment his Jedi started dropping hints that she didn't think this would be a straightforward peace mission, which was sometime after his whittling session last night. He trusted her and her premonitions enough to assume that she was right. And of course, the Sep ships practically screamed "Bad News!" He wasn't so stupid to think that anything would go right from thereon in.

But besides that, Cap's observation made him realize how much effort had been put into this blockade. An unnatural amount of effort, and the unnatural part wasn't because there were droids around. Then there was the name on the flagship, which he'd taken the liberty of photographing and enlarging and found the craft was called the _Subdue_. That was clearly not a good sign. The presence of enough heavy artillery in the hangar to blow the G9 to Yavin was also less-than-comforting. Chairman Chlors' stiffness, Representative Mahla's absence, and Chlors' sudden desire for a 'fresher break, would have all helped clear things up for him if he was a shiny, but instead they only polished the surface a bit more.

"They're going to trap us in this room and destroy the fleet," he whispered matter-of-factly via private channel. Swiftwater was still wearing the Lorcced in one ear, still minus the screen.

"Warn them," she muttered, softly so only the mike in her Lorcced would pick it up. She then accepted some sort of pastry or something from the hovering protocol droid, and to placate it he took one, too, though he didn't take off his helmet to eat. It fussed a little more before making for the exit a bit too fast for his liking. They didn't have much time.

"_Indomitable_, this is Captain Zach, do you copy?"

…

"—yes, that plug, good job. Sorry Captain, having some comm. trouble. What's wrong now?"

Comm. trouble. Could be jamming. He groaned. Not already.

"Inform Admiral Chamragnar that it is very possible this was all a trap. Prepare for attack, repeat, prep for attack."

"Captain, are you serious, this is supposed to be a diplomatic—"

"A lot of things are _supposed_ to be something, trooper, but they're not. Inform Chamragnar that we could be facing a Sep attack any second."

The trooper's reply was cut off by a burst of static. He switched to private channel again. "Jamming, General. I think I got the message across, but I doubt Chamragnar will listen."

There was no real visible change in her expression, but Zach could tell she was worried by the way she turned the pastry over in her hands a couple times. He also noticed the lack of confidence when she said, gravely, "I hope that he will."

That's when the droids came in from a hidden door to their left. They had the table on its side—an impressive feat, given its size and density and their previous inertness—and their weapons drawn in two seconds flat. It was amazing, how well you worked with someone when you only knew them for several months. Then again, these months _were_ spent in combat.

Ten SBDs, a couple regular tinnies. The regulars, and even a few of the bigger ones, he could deal with easily enough while Sals cut down the rest. Or better yet, she could cut open the doors while he provided cover fire, and then they'd be able to run out into—what? More droids? Oh well, it was an idea, and he'd rather go down with a fight than without one. She'd probably agree, though he wouldn't risk asking. Funny, that they could have such widely differing views and arguments on stupid things when they were safe, but in the field they thought as one. Even with her more elaborate tactics, he wasn't more than a step behind.

The door—the one they'd come through, that is—opened up, and Sals moved to cover his back, carefully enough so that he could still see what was happening with rearview. He brought it up in one quadrant, turning his head constantly to compensate for a more restricted forward view.

Chlors had been arrogant enough to come back in the room, flanked by a set of four SBDs. They were half-in and half-out, and he didn't need to see his general to know what she was thinking.

"General Swiftwater, I highly suggest you surrender," intoned Chlors in that sickly smooth voice. "Dooku's orders are quite specific, and we'd rather not anyone else get hurt here."

Dooku was behind this? He stored this intel away for later, so he could concentrate on making sure there_ was_ a later.

"So, Dooku's the mastermind behind this whole scam," confirmed Sals. She shifted her weight slightly to her left foot, pushing her right backwards.

If Chlors' volume was anything to judge by, he was furious. "Mastermind? You think _he_'s the mastermind?_ I _am the one who engineered this whole deception, not him! I am the one who worked to bring you here, _not him_! He may have funded my efforts, but know this—_I am the one in control!_"

"I meant no disrespect, Chairman," she intoned calmly. The only sign of any ill will towards him was the ice on the last word. He noted how she bent her right knee carefully, just enough to be noticeable when that was most of what he could see, but no more than that. "In fact, I tend to think—"

And then, just as he'd expected, she sprung, while he fired off a few shots before running out the door after her. Judging by the prone yet intact guards and Chairman, it had just been a simple Force-push she'd employed, but blast, it did the trick.

They sprinted in the direction of the hangar. Any droids that noticed them were dealt with quite quickly. "Shall I tell everyone our welcome's been overstayed?" he asked, trying to keep up some sense of humor with her, at least.

"I think the fleet would like to hear the news first, if you can get through." She groaned at the sight of an organized squad rushing in from a hall they'd just passed. "I'll buy you time."

No answer from the fleet, just static. He decreased the forward view and increased rearview/sideview, sniping out the rouges while keeping an eye on Sals as she scraped the droids. Her green lightsaber blurred from a single thin line into a broad sweep of jade destruction. Jedi were very convenient in times like this.

He switched to open comm., which should have been able to reach the hangar. "Sergeant, are you there?"

An agonizingly long pause. "Cap, do you copy?"

"…I hear you, Zachie boy. What the haran happened back in there?"

He tried not to sigh with relief. "Trap, as per usual." There was gunfire sound in the link. "Having a bit of trouble?"

"G9's a crater now. Never liked that shabla ship anyways. Pinned down behind a few supply crates with the shiny. Your rifle's been quite a help, by the way."

"You have to give it back, you know." He ignored the curses and complaints. "Listen, we'll get there ASAP. Hold out a little longer, okay?"

"Got it, Z'ika."

He cut the link before he could give Cap a reply unfitting for a captain. No one, not even Apma'buir, called him "Little Zach" in Mando'a, but he'd rather not tell Cap off for it. Another thing he'd need to do later.

Sals finished up with the droids, and they were clear for an impressive distance. All the way to the hangar, in fact, which meant, of course, that Cap and Bluebird were doing a remarkable job of keeping the tinnies busy. They hit the walls to either side of the door and leaned there for a second or two.

"Ideas?"

He glanced in and located them. "They're in the back right corner, closer than I'd hoped. Should be a ventilation shaft around there. If we can get there and make a distraction, it's a good escape route."

"Hey, you got any flash-bangs on you?"

"One. Cap should have a few droid poppers, not enough to stop 'em all."

She took a deep breath. "I go first, you follow on my shebs, minimal firing. Ready?"

It always amused him to hear her pick up the odd word of Mando'a. "When am I not?"

"On three. One…two…" She didn't finish, just ran, slicing up droids as she went. He was a bit more careful, because as she'd guessed he didn't have too many power cells on him. Instead he ran like she'd ordered, the all-around views helping him dodge plenty of unpleasant surprises.

"Nice of you to join the kriffing party." The pilot handed the rifle back reluctantly but quickly, and Zach checked the power setting.

"65%? You've been wasting ammo," he grumbled. Cap never had been a good shot.

They fought in silence for a minute or two, alternating between firing and taking cover. Sals was doing a good job of defending them, but things were not looking up to say the least. She ducked down for a moment and said, "Next time you fire, look over at the ships in the hangar."

He did as requested. "Fuel cells," he confirmed.

"Those are fierfekking close to the ships, the di'kuts. We going to be doing some fireworks?"

"Your aim isn't good enough, Cap, so don't offer your skills, and it would take too long to just shoot them, anyway. But I'd say your assortment of grenades should do the trick."

"Yes, sir." Zach ducked down again, nabbing a couple droid poppers off Cap, who didn't so much as grunt—a testament to the tension of the situation. He tried to see if he could toss them while throwing his flash-bang and found he'd completely screw up his aim if he did.

"If I may, sir, I can toss the EMPs." The trooper's voice was soft and steady. Guiltily he realized he'd forgotten her existence, and he accepted the help.

"Just aim them at the advancing line on my signal." He hefted the bomb and watched the line carefully. Timing was everything. A second early, and they'd lose cover too soon. A second late, and they'd be shot in the backs, one of the worst ways to die. And their own movement would need to be exact, or they'd be done for anyway.

He hated, absolutely _hated_, when things came down to something like this.

"Ready, everyone? Wait for it…now!"

**_Private Barracks Room 2, the _Resolute_, somewhere in Yushan sector, 1431_**

Mykolas stared at the floor. It seemed there was little to do nowadays but stare at something. Usually it was one of the various surfaces of the ship, be they floor, ceiling, wall, table, the top of a bunk, a door, or something of the like. He found it quite amusing to stare at others and watch as they looked away nervously and tried not to fidget. His "perceptive Jedi look" was now honed to perfection because of it.

He didn't want to stare at people at the moment. He knew that sooner or later someone would have the gall to ask if he was alright, and he was sick of answering the question, or avoiding it. Clones were always so nosy, and such gossips, too. He'd been able to catch a few whispers about himself—that he was cracked in the head, that he was in shock, that he was in reality so brain-dead he could barely feed himself and it was a fluke that no one had realized he was basically a shell now.

There was also a rather disturbing one he'd heard only yesterday. He'd been wandering the halls after lunch and accidently snuck up on two bridge clones having an urgent talk between themselves. He hadn't caught it all, but he'd heard snatches like this:

"Always staring….Creeps everyone out…can't help it, poor lad….Wonder if he'd picked it up somewhere...Maybe his Master…possible he was…yup, Master probably started it….Guess after being used so often, it only came natural…well, I don't _know_, but it makes _sense_….Would you say no if Skywalker told you to strip down? Or Commander Tano? They couldn't say no to either of them."

They thought he had a _thing_ for clones. He didn't know how bad it hurt, didn't even think it had hurt, but it was part of the reason that he was holed up now. He didn't like thinking too much anymore. Thinking only brought up Master, and what he could have done to stop what had happened. There was nothing, and everything at the same time, and it killed him to think, to wonder, if he'd just made one different decision, one tiny shift in focus, what might have happened.

He shouldn't have survived the insertion on Scylla. It was that simple. He shouldn't have come off that battlefield when only one out of every six men lived, half needing immediate care and placement in bacta, the other half barely standing with or without support, and not a scratch on him. Master shouldn't have fallen, not without himself there, too.

He had dismissed the rumor, when he wasn't thinking, only now that he suddenly was, it kept jumping at him. He made several attempts to ignore it. After all, no clone would ever go through a loss like his, so they didn't know what they were talking about. His master was the one constant in a galaxy that had turned itself upside-down overnight, always there for reassurance, and now…there was nothing. Just a hole where he should have been. They wouldn't know that because they hadn't had that, and so they didn't know anything.

And on top of that, he was being shipped off to a new "master". As if someone that important, a practical father to him, could be replaced at the drop of a hat. No one would ever take his place, so why did they even bother trying to make it happen?

He sighed and rubbed his temple. This was why he didn't like thinking. It hurt too much.

His commlink beeped, and he answered it after a few buzzes. "Yes?"

"Commander, General Skywalker requests your immediate presence on the bridge."

He wandered up to the bridge despite the urgency in the trooper's tone. He didn't particularly care, just was glad for the brief reprieve that movement gave him from his thoughts. When he finally walked in, he saw that Skywalker, his Padawan, and his captain—couldn't remember their names—were already there, watching another grainy hologram with another forgettable admiral barking orders while carrying on another irrelevant conversation as he and his men once again fought "valiantly" for the safety of the whole ridiculous Republic. Now that he didn't care anymore, he saw how ridiculous the system and the rest of the galaxy were.

"—pinned down here. We'll be toast in seconds.—Peewo, switch out before you pass out.—I'm giving the evac order for us now, but I don't expect much, total dead space save the planet and moon. We're already at—what is it now, Commander?—20% shields, thank you, diverting as much power as we can up there, and _Guardian_ is listing hard to port. Severe damage to _Finalit_y's reactor, all personnel except volunteers evacing both ships ASAP."

"Should we assist, Admiral Chamragnar?" asked Skywalker. Even in Myk's dead-to-the-Force state, (the Force hurt more than thinking, and he didn't like dwelling on it) he could tell the Jedi was just raring to go on another adventure.

"Don't bother, sir—Concentrate fire on their ships, we want to do as much damage as we can, gentlemen.—unless you've got several fleets behind you. The blockade's tighter than a tin of sardines."

"Master, what about General Swiftwater?"

"She and the Captain are—were on the control ship for 'diplomatic discussions'. Got a comm. from Zach five minutes before the shooting started, jammed about halfway through. If they're not ~~_skk_~~ will be, soon. I don't ~~_skk_~~ Shit! Jamm~~_skk_~~ boost the~~_skk_~~General~~_skk_~~me, repeat do not~~_skk_~~desperate~~_skk_~~get yoursel~~_skk_~~nor serving~~_skkkkk…._"

"Admiral? Admiral! Strengthen the signal!"

The comm. officer slapped his hand against his station in exasperation. "Too late, General. Signal's lost, and it'd take a miracle to get it back. Sorry, sir."

"You did what you could," reassured the Togruta.

The captain sighed, running a hand over his close-cropped hair. "Swiftwater was a good leader. She and Captain Zach…they were a force to be reckoned with. And…I have a hard time believing they'd just roll over and give up. No matter how grim things might look. So it's possible they might have survived, and if they did, I almost pity the man who ordered this. _Almost_."

The general shrugged. "I admit, she is tough. But I also don't think she'd last long on a Separatist control ship, without any support." (Myk thought it was terribly ironic, coming from him.) "We'll just have to accept that she's gone. Master Kenobi isn't going to like this," he added to himself. It was funny how he lowered his voice afterwards. "He and Qui-Gon were the ones who brought her to the Temple." Hardly classified information.

It was as he was walking away that he finally noticed Myk. Another of the ironies of life; he'd never been good at stealth before. "I'm sorry about Sayn-Linn," he said, putting a hand on the Zabrak's shoulder. "It must be difficult, to lose two masters in such quick succession."

He didn't feel sad. He wasn't so callous as to feel triumphant that no one _could _replace Master, and he didn't have any particular ill feelings towards them in general, it just didn't affect him specifically at all, and certainly not in the way it seemed to affect everyone else here. And then, he had a realization that would have shocked and horrified him earlier, but now only amused him in what he knew others would consider a rather sadistic way.

He didn't even feel pity, knowing that more people were dead. He felt absolutely nothing.

* * *

><p>It's been awhile since I updated...my excuse being two family reunions, one monster list of Hetalia fanfics, very little written for the next chapter, and a whole lot of laziness. Sorry. But if any of you actually know what that is, I've also got a Hetalia AU oneshot I want to post soon. ;)<p>

Yes, Zach uses the nickname "Sals" while in combat. My rationale is, battle goes quickly and crazily, and he'd rather focus on the matter at hand than rank. And Swiftwater doesn't care. They both tend to shorten everyone's names, anyway.

I find it kinda funny that everyone was all pumped about meeting Sals' padawan, and now you did, only he's kinda depressed right now...

Read, review, enjoy.


	5. A Brief Respite, and Plans are Made

**A/N**: I'm baaack!

Really, though, the only reason you get this chappie so soon is because of the lovely and kind reviews you guys gave for "Study of a Son". It inspired me to write more, and while I've had this for awhile I was procrastinating posting it. I'm sorry.

Quick notes: As implied by the title, very little action in this one, except for a flashback-y thing. And "oya" is Mando for "Let's hunt", more or less, thus our Jedi's fail grammar at the end. Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 4: During Which There is a Brief Respite and Plans are Made by Both Parties<p>

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><p><strong><em>Ventilation Shafts of <em>Subdue_, Hevoi System, 1500 hours_**

_We're alive. We're alive. Holy Force, why are we still alive?_

That single chain of thought ran itself through Bluebird's head over and over, like some bad holovid put on a loop. Not that it wasn't a valid question, but it was getting annoying in that familiar way that meant either she'd have to answer it herself or go crazy from the repetition.

So, why _were_ they alive?

Well, Bluebird was pretty sure why _she_ was alive, or at least, why she'd lived long enough to see Captain Zach and General Swiftwater rush back into the hangar in a blaze of kick-shebs glory. The short story was, Cap had waited exactly five minutes before standing up, saying only, "Move your shebs, shiny," and not even bothering to look to see if she'd followed. She was glad she had.

The short story, of course, didn't exactly bring out the tension and fear and nausea of first battle, a mix which, unbeknownst to her, was exactly the same as every one of her brothers felt.

The long story was, they'd gotten to the still-open ramp quickly, and it was there they waited, just out of sight from the hangar. Cap somehow or other had his helmet patched into video feed from one of the cruiser's security cams, she noticed from his POV icon but let it go, getting the strong feeling she probably wouldn't want to know with him. He must've been watching it intently, because when he'd picked her up and literrally thrown her off the ship he still had had a good twenty seconds to jump himself before the nearest gun turret in the hangar let loose, blasting the G9 to Yavin. It should have switched targets to something closer to them when those manning it had seen them jump; the only reason she could conceive of that would explain why it hadn't was that it was not full-spec, and already well into its firing sequence. Only an expert could pick those two critical details up.

And she'd have been toast anyway, since the thing was reloading the second the first shot went off, and she was still scrambling to get on her feet. Instead of leaving her to follow the ship's example, however, the pilot had pushed her out of the way a second time and ordered, "Find some shabla cover, dammit!"

She sprinted to the shelter of a few crates nearby, firing off a few shots wildly. It took her precious seconds to realize her..."companion" was not there, and she turned around to check on him.

That was the moment when the gun turret blew to bits, the force knocking her back _again_. She was dazed for several seconds, trying to blink away a headache and the spots in her vision, and that lapse of focus could've killed her, if the pilot wasn't there, wasting tinnies left and right with the Captain's rifle. Embarrassed that she'd been saved four times by the same brother in the first three minutes of combat during her very first battle, she snapped up quickly, ignored the vertigo, and started firing.

There hadn't been time to say anything, when suddenly he ducked down and put a hand to his helmet. She'd signed off of open channel when Cap had gotten up, figuring if he had something to say he'd use private channel, which was in retrospect a very stupid mistake she rectified quickly. A moment later he spoke, saying only, "Mir'osik One and Two are headed this way."

She assumed (correctly) that he referred to their COs, and sure enough, it was not long before they ran in with the aforementioned wave of destruction. Even so, how likely was it that they would survive? She knew the chances were slim, but she had no orders to surrender or stop fighting, and she would do neither until so ordered.

Then, she experienced for herself what Kaz had called earlier "the absolute genius that is the general". Well, perhaps not in its full glory, but either way General Swiftwater noticed the fuel cells and immediately came up with a plan. Having felt thoroughly useless when Cap was saving her shebs earlier, she offered to throw some EMPs at the droids while the Captain tossed the bomb. Zach's grenade had blown the fuel cells and several fighters, as well as igniting a sudden conflagration among what remained. You'd have thought they'd make those fighters a bit more flame-retardant. And the droid poppers—new term, a field term as Vhon'buir called it—had worked on the tinnies not taken down or distracted by the fire. From there, it was merely a mad dash to the ventilation grate, thankfully opened via the Force when they reached it, and a scramble to get away but stay quiet while crawling through the ventilation shaft.

She hadn't slowed until the Captain had pointed out they were headed straight for the junction they were currently sitting in.

The junction was decidedly small, only a meter on either side and a little over two meters tall, with five or six shafts adjoining it. The "floor" was a large fan encased in a rickety-looking metal grating, and a second fan served as a ceiling. There was, however, enough room for the four of them to sit in the opening of a shaft and rest.

Now that she finally managed to catch her breath and quit thinking in that stir-crazy circular pattern, she flicked between a few different helmet overlays. Trooper buckets didn't have the best specs, just the basics: soundproofing, automatic flash dampener to lessen one's chance of going blind, UV filter, suit integrity checks, Galactic/Local Positioning Systems, comm. relay controls, a limited amount of data storage for mission details, and the injured/dead tally in one corner. In oddly cheery shades, the tally declared the fates of all troopers in the unit with numbers next to color-coded dots. Currently the majority were next to the red dot, indicating death, with blue coming in a close second, advertising how many men had been alive when contact had been lost with their helmet transponders. Only three were marked green, looking depressingly small against the other grim statistics.

She reset the tally with some sadness. _Blink, blink_ at the icon to bring up the full-screen list, organizing the whole unit by number designation, then showing rank, assignment, and status. It was possible to organize it by one of these other criteria, and if she had had time she would have chosen to organize by status first, but it was a bit late for that. _Ba-blink_ at the reset button, and only three numbers were left. There it was—her hatchmates and closest friends, separated, dead, and buried with an hour's absence and two quick eye movements. It took more effort than she expected to hold back the tears, but she managed to do it by reminding herself it would do no good to mourn them now. Later, when they'd gotten out of this mess—

Wait a second.

How the frak were they going to get out? They were stuck on an enemy ship, surrounded by droids, with the nearest friendly face systems away, hiding in an air vent. Already her blasters were at 69% and 45%, and she only had two spare power cells, not enough to fight her way off-ship. There were a few vibroblades she had for close combat, but those would be little use in a firefight. What brilliant plan could get them out alive?

Or maybe that wasn't the goal anymore. Maybe now that they were all guaranteed to die, this would just become a suicide mission and they'd do everything they could to blow up this godforsaken control ship and sabotage the enemy commander's plans. "Suicide mission". Funny, but the words didn't take on the same terrifying, definitive air that she'd always imagined they would have when they were a guaranteed reality as opposed to an abstract concept. Maybe death wouldn't be so bad, not if it helped someone out there. Sure, she'd miss her sisters, and there was no telling how Olivia would take it, and Vhon'buir would be upset; but she would see her brothers again, assuming there was a manda. And there was no greater honor than dying to save something. Especially if you went down on your own terms, when someone else was trying to make you die the way _they _wanted you to.

Speaking of which, there was one thing she ought to take care of now that they had some sort of reprieve. She turned to her left so as to face the pilot. "Thanks for back there," she emitted. "I would've been a goner if it weren't for you."

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. I just wanted to make sure you were safe is all." (It is worth mentioning that by this point in time, she had already begun developing a "Triple P" filter, a vital trait for surviving any extended length of time with Cap.)

"What happened to 'saving the tinnies the trouble of trying to hit my puny shebs'?"

He snorted. "It's called _self-preservation_, shiny. If you were gone I'd've been alone, and I don't trust my shebs to those odds." His words sounded clipped and strained, and she hesitated, trying to figure out if it was worth the trouble of mentioning to him.

As it were, the general saved her the trouble.

"You're hurt," she remarked matter-of-factly. Even through the helmet the noise was close to being deafening, but her voice was clear over the comm. It was only after Bluebird thought this that her brain processed the actual statement. _He's been hurt trying to save me._

"I'm fine." There was a quick click before and after his speech.

"Then why did you just switch off your mic, sarge?"

Judging by the way his head turned towards her, he was sending a killer glare her way. "What part of 'I'm fine' don't you understand, shiny?"

"Cap." There was an unexpected edge to the general's voice, and she was trying to engage him in a staring contest, a bad move when facing a helmeted opponent. "Don't lie to me."

Somehow or other, she managed to win. "I fell on my leg funny when I jumped from the G9," he admitted grudgingly. "I'll live."

General Swiftwater insisted on checking over it anyway, and since she had rank and power it was obvious who would win. Captain Zach sighed and leaned against one wall. "Patch would've normally done that," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. The other two paid him no mind, and for a moment she wondered if she was hearing things.

"I'm sorry, sir?"

He switched to a private channel, shutting out the other's bickering and proving her wrong. "Patch, our senior medic, he never took any bull when someone didn't want to be treated. Especially not from me." This made him laugh. "He'd sit me down and say, 'Come on, Zach, you've already proved you're tough enough, now let me look you over. You're not helping anybody by resisting, and if you keep this up I'll have to sedate you, and then where will we be if there's an ambush and you're out 'cause you can't take your medicine?' Good old Patch….He's gone by now, isn't he? I was trying all the emergency comm. frequencies, trying to get a lock on the fleet, and I get nothing. They're probably all gone by now."

She was touched by his sudden openness. Captain Zach didn't strike her as one to wear his heart on his sleeve. "Was he your hatchmate, Patch?" It was uncommon for hatchmates to be trained in two different specialties, almost unheard of, but he spoke so fondly of this Patch that she couldn't draw any other conclusion.

"No, but we go back far enough that he might as well have been." He took off his helmet to take a swig from his canteen, then motioned to one side of his face, speaking into the bucket's mike. "My hatchmate Ty once busted up this whole side of his face on Kamino in a training accident, and Sergeant Apma, he was...well, I think you've met him, you know how protective the sergeants got. So he took our squad to Tipoca City's medcenter, but they didn't send a medic there right away to take care of it. They said it was to show a few brothers in training to be medics what a third-degree burn looked like. I think it was mostly to piss him off.

"They put on quite a show, though. Must've dragged in at least five squads while we were waiting, each one fussing over it and shining lights in one eye and blabbing about torn muscle, and I just wanted it to be over already. We all did.

"Apma had given him a painkiller earlier, but it was wearing off when the last squad came in. You know what the medics are like there, he didn't dare say anything, but you could tell, he was crying out of both eyes and had already bit his lip straight through. The first four of them looked him over, and they were each giving their diagnosis, but I noticed one of them was hanging back while his brothers were fussing.

"Finally he came over, and they all move to make room for him. It was like, when the longnecks were gathering to talk about something, and then Ko Sai came in and they all just stopped and she took over everything—that's what it reminded me of. So he took a bit of time to glance over the wounds, then all of a sudden he turned and started asking for painkillers and sterile cleaning fluids and all these other supplies, and his brothers got them and he treated him, just like that. The droid didn't do anything until he's all patched up, then he came over and looked at his work. He said, 'Exemplary job, Cadet. We were afraid this unit could not be repaired.' You know how they are, and Apma was just about ready to tear out his servos, but this kid nodded and said to Ty, 'I hope you recover quickly, vod.' " He paused a moment, considering. "I think that's what stopped him, Apma. Just the fact that there were some good medical personnel out there, and no matter how-inhumane his teachers, he was still decent enough to remember his brothers.

"Anyway, he's been sewing us back up ever since." He made a face. "Not anymore, though."

After a few moments of silence, he started talking again. "You know what, he used to badger me and needle me and annoy me to death on the operating table, but now that I know he's not going to do it any longer, I miss it. Funny, how you don't seem to appreciate things like that until you've lost them, and when they're gone, they're gone, and you miss them. I guess that's how life works."

She considered his words. "Sergeant Tervho said we'd been cheated. That everyone in combat is, but us especially. No choice, no normalcy, and no one to care about how we're treated. Except some of our sergeants, I guess."

"Apma would agree. I know how much Tervho hated him, but he'd agree. Most of the training sergeants would."

She wanted to say more, but Cap cut in on the priority override. "Are you two going to sit around and chat all day, or are we going to hurry up and get the kriff outta here while we can?" He was already sounding much better, if the sudden increase in the creativity of his side profanity was any indicator.

"Patience, Cap. We can't just go in with guns blazing and hope for the best. We need a plan."

"And I suppose you're going to be the one to come up with some ingenious device to magically solve all our problems?" Bluebird couldn't help but think they let the man get away with murder.

"Give me a second, alright?"

She stood up tall. Zach made a sound like he wanted to mention the unstable grating, (he'd already scolded Bluebird for standing on it earlier) but he didn't comment. Instead she turned to the now-unoccupied vent and spread her hands in front of it, as if clearing a holochart in a war room. Then she began drawing imaginary figures on the "holochart", and talking to herself.

"Okay, so if the fleet was _here_, with the sun _here_, then Hevoi over _here_, and Sava and the blockade _here_, and approaching at the standard speed…no, Chamragnar would've kept them in formation, so with a drift with a comparative relation to their former speed but slowing as they lost momentum, that would put them around _there_….Assuming the order was given at that point, that would be a distance of…wait a second. Need to calculate that…but they'd be this far from the moon, so the distance from Sava to Hevoi squared minus that…whoa, that's a number…approximate square root….Okay, standard discharge speed'd put them at 85-90 when they hit atmo…add gravitational pull…huh. Fascinating. Landing in the northwest quadrant, then. Hmm. I wonder…."

Bluebird cut her out of the circuit for a moment. "What is she _doing_?"

"Shh."

"But Captain—"

"Hush, Bluebird. Let her finish."

So she let the general finish.

"Should be able to reach the bridge—wait, wait, wait. I'm _missing_ something. What is it I'm missing?" She seemed to be talking more to them now.

"I don't know. I haven't been paying attention." The Captain sounded mildly apologetic. "You estimate the chances of survival for escapees?"

"Yes."

"Determine approximate location?"

"Yes."

"Map out ventilation system in the rest of the ship and form a route to nearest understaffed hangar?"

"First one, yes, mentally, but that was never the plan, anyway."

"Okay, so you've figured out how to get to the bridge and main engines for potential sabotage."

"_Yes_."

"Well, what's there to miss? We've accounted for the Chairman, so we'll probably take him down if he hasn't run off already. It'd at least handicap the fleet for a while, especially if we can get a message out to the Council or Senate beforehand. We'll have to break into a comm. control tower first. That's going to be a problem, but it's worth it, and—"

"Wait, wait, go back."

"What, breaking into the comm. tower?"

"No, before that."

"You mean getting a message to the Senate? Okay, maybe it'd be more efficient to take it straight to the Chancellor, but that's not my point."

"That's it!" The expression on her face was absolutely jubilant. "Sava has a representative on the Hevoi High Council, Representative Jiji Mahla. When Sava declared itself independent of the planet, Mahla was the one who drafted their Declaration of Sovereignty as well as their new Constitution. _She_ was the one who was supposed to conduct negotiations on their behalf today. So what happened to her?"

Captain Zach shrugged. "Chlors said she had 'urgent business' on Sava."

"I'd guess she's dead by now, sir." Bluebird was being honest, but it seemed someone didn't believe her.

"No, no. That would just be inciting rebellion. The people would choose a new leader, and an open revolt would begin soon enough. It would be a lot more effective to keep her under the Chairman's thumb, so to speak. That way they control her and the people, and can force her into signing the moon back under the Chairman's rule."

Captain Zach jumped to the same place the general was, leaving Cap and Blue behind. "And what better place to keep her in control than a control _ship_? It's not like any rebels would be able to reach her here."

She caught on fast. "But we're here, sir. And we're better than a bunch of rebels; we've been trained for something like this."

The pilot put his head in his hand. "Oh shit, even the shiny's in on this."

"Alright, gentlemen—and lady. Let's go oya."

The grammar was almost appallingly inaccurate, but the sentiment was the same. Oya indeed.

**_Dooku's Solar Sailer, Deep Space, 1512 hours_**

Dooku was not pleased.

Granted, the Count was not a man who was easily pleased on a good day, but this time he was particularly unsatisfied with the performance of those beneath him.

A hologram of Chairman Chlors of the Hevoi High Council shimmered on the consol in front of him. This was the reason he was disgruntled.

"Lord, I swear, I _had_ that Jedi. She was within my grasp, and then she used gross trickery to thwart my plans. If—"

"So it seems you have not upheld your end of the bargain, Chairman. Perhaps I should withdraw my support from your position?"

"No, please, Lord, I beg you! Give me another chance, it won't happen again!"

The Chairman was indeed begging. On his knees. Dooku's contempt for him only grew. And yet, before he could really declare the man incompetent, he needed to know who had bested him. "Who was it that they sent?"

"Swiftwater, she said her name was. One of those clone abominations was following her—Captain Zach, or something."

Dooku felt his mouth turn into a sneer. Swiftwater. He knew exactly who she was. She and her master had tried to stop his departure from Geonosis, as Kenobi and his own brat had later. Disia was the closest he'd had to a worthy opponent in a long time, and for that he'd let the Padawan live, hoping that she'd picked up something useful from her mentor and would provide him—or at least his apprentice—with a challenge later on.

He should have killed her when he had the chance.

She was little more than a nuisance, but wherever she showed up she spelled disaster. And it would have been easy enough to dispose of her, only she always had one clone or another hanging around and messing with his plans. Most often it was the one called Zach. He was the reason she'd lasted so long; he was resourceful, for a clone.

"Bring her to me, _alive_, with her miserable pet, and you will have control of the whole sector. Bring her body, and you shall receive your previous fee."

Dooku watched Chlors' reaction. He was surprised at the sudden change in tone, yet excited, greed quickly quashing his questions. Beforehand Dooku had demanded the Jedi be alive, regardless of the circumstances, but this one was too slippery for his liking. If Chlors was smart enough to catch them both, he could rule a sector without a problem.

"As you wish, my lord."

The hologram cut out, and the deal was sealed.


	6. Where Things Are Set Into Motions

What's this? I'm posting a new chapter within three weeks of the last one? Alright, then, looks like everyone was right about 2012 being the end of the world.

I'm kidding, of course, but it took a lot of pushing myself to start to edit this chap each time. I must've looked it over at least three times, but it was worth it.

And I realize that no one's ever said that the droids run on hydraulics, but I've recently grown fond of steampunk and wanted to just add another sense to this. Enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 5: Wherein Things Are Set Into Motions<p>

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><p><strong><em>Ventilation Shafts of the <em>Subdue, _1530 CT_**

Bluebird's current prevailing emotion was a toss-up between calmly enthused and terrified.

On the one hand, General Swiftwater had assured them that it was "very likely that we'll all survive without receiving anything more than a couple scars each, worst case scenario." Their roles had gone from diplomatic envoys to kamikazes to rescue squad, and in all honesty she wasn't too fond of the idea of dying just yet. Sure, when it was the only option it seemed simple enough, but there were a few things she wanted to get done first. Vhon'buir had had to leave within days of the war's declaration, and she wanted to see her mother again, and sisters, and their brothers.

Not to mention, she'd like to see a good deal more of General Swiftwater, if only because she wanted to figure out what it was that she'd been blabbing about with the captain earlier.

And speaking of the captain, there was still something almost-familiar about him, and she couldn't shake that feeling off. She knew it was only a matter of time before she remembered exactly who he was and why she remembered him, and it was disconcerting, to know she knew him but not know why. (His affiliation to Apma helped narrow it down, but everyone had so many trainees she wasn't quite sure which he was.)

And the general was somehow or other positive at least a few shinies had survived. How she could possibly know this, she didn't ask; just the thought that there was a chance her brothers were alive—no matter how slim—kept her full of _lifelust_, the sheer joy of living and desire for more.

On the other hand.

It was quite possible General Swiftwater was crazy. Their scheme certainly was mad enough. So, maybe they were all doomed because of this madwoman.

Or maybe she was sane. Maybe she was as sane as her first name. But what were the odds that they would survive? That this would work? That they'd be able to find Mahla, get her out, warn Skywalker that everything had been shot to haran, and then capture the bridge and hold it until reinforcements arrived? And what were the odds that those reinforcements would be enough to take care of the fleet?

There were a thousand things that could go wrong. Thus, the terror.

"This is Leader, calling in for a sitrep. Locations and progress, please."

That was General Swiftwater. An advantage to this crazy scheme was they all got pretty sweet call signs. They were still close enough to one another that they'd decided to risk unsecured communications, even though there was a very distinct possibility that they could be caught this way.

"Ferret here, plugging in to terminal and copying map. I'll look for closest control tower when done. Should be there in ten."

"Hey, 'Leader', why the kark am I crawling through a vent to a different hangar? What the hell was wrong with the one we left?"

"In case you forgot, Mouth, we trashed that last one."

She stifled a laugh at the captain's comment. "Birdie, in position. Waiting for the Worm."

"Excellent, I've found the Worm. Just need to tag him for your chase, Birdie. Leader out."

She waited patiently for the map and icon to appear on her bucket. The second Swiftwater landed a tracking beacon on Chlors (another thing where she hadn't asked "how"), she'd need to follow him closely and find Mahla. There was no guarantee he'd go to her cell, and none that Blue would be able to get into her cell, but according to the general they'd burn those bridges when they came to them.

"Birdie, Worm is tagged and approaching your position. Should pass under you in five. Start phase one, repeat start phase one everybody. Leader out."

The comm. turned to static, and Bluebird focused on the new map. She waited for him to pass under her, listening to the clanging metalic feet of guards beneath the vent, then followed.

**_Corridor 38B, All-Access Terminal 7, the _Subdue_, 1540_**

"Birdie, Worm is tagged and approaching your position. Should pass under you in five. Start phase one, repeat start phase one everybody. Leader out."

Cap, who was closer to him than either of the women, remarked, "Well, time to put a hydrospanner in these shabla works."

"Comm. silence now, Mouth," he reminded gently, too afraid that this could be the last time they spoke to yell, and shut off his comm.

Zach climbed back into the vent and headed out. They were all on their own now, until Sals hacked into a communications tower and got them a secure channel. There were too many elements going on for there to be complete comm. silence, thus her part of the plan.

Phase one involved several things, most importantly Bluebird freeing Mahla, Sals hacking said tower, Cap reaching a hangar (and, if possible, sneaking onto a ship), and himself getting into the control tower for vulture droids. There were at least three versions of phase two, though Sals had declined sharing any but Plan A and had even gone so far as to deny the very existence of a Plan B; but that wasn't important right now.

What _was_ important was getting over to the control tower in one piece. It was the only way they could guarantee that Cap (and by extension, Mahla) made it out of there alive. Though, the way Cap had been annoying him lately, he honestly wouldn't mind if he was knocked about in the process. Maybe he'd engineer a few close calls for his pilot "friend"….

What was he thinking? This plan was dangerous enough without him trying to screw with Cap's head, so why was he even _considering _it? If this was all that was left of his men—the thought made his throat tight—then he was going to go to the ends of the galaxy to keep them alive, because this was who he was and what he loved, and damn if he wouldn't protect his brothers. So why had he had such a cruel thought?

In all honesty, the pilot tended to do that to you. He was surprised at how well he'd behaved around the rookie—the last batch had gone through pure hell, during the first half of their first _week_. It was not a pretty sight to see, or a pretty sight to stop, for that matter.

Regardless, Cap and Bluebird seemed to him to have some less-than-harmonizing personality traits. He wouldn't have thought that they'd be quite as…friendly? Non-hostile?—_amicable_ as they clearly were. In fact, Cap seemed to be willing to put up with her, to an extent. He did that for a handful of people. Most of his squad, for one thing, when he wasn't shoving them around and being a complete ass (which was an odd occurrence, indeed). And one, maybe two of the engineers, besides Kaz, who was in a class all his own with, maybe, Twaura Minn. Sometimes, when she was doing something most of her peers wouldn't approve of, he'd actually cheer on the general, but that was rare. So, he was amazed at how little fighting he was doing with the rookie.

Maybe she'd promised to help him blow up a 'fresher without getting caught. That would explain a lot.

He maneuvered himself above the room. The vents were technically to make sure that steam and other forms of heat wouldn't build up in any one section of the ship and overheat all droids in the area, but they were large enough for a normal humanoid to crawl through without much of a problem.

There were only a few run-of-the-mill battle droids on duty, not posing much of a threat at the moment. One R3 droid seemed to have the Con, possibly controlling and monitoring the fleet movements, definetly sending and receiving the instructions for all unmanned fighters. He didn't think recognizing an enemy would be in its programming, and he didn't want to dispose of it in case someone noticed that their droids weren't doing anything.

Carefully he removed the grating from its place, not making a sound. He waited until all three guards were bending over some consol of sorts, then dropped down. The clatter of falling tinnie greeted him, and the smell of plasma discharge and fried circuitry, but not any sort of retort from any gun, nor chatter from outside guards put on alert.

It was times like these that he loved the silencer on his rifle.

He crossed to the only standing droid, which carried on business as usual. Now came the tricky part. Was this R3 in charge of relaying orders to all other control rooms for the vultures, or did it only rule over those details attached to the ship? Did it worry about the fleet itself, watching over its orbit, or were only the smaller craft in its charge?

He plugged in a data stick, linking his bucket up to the tinnie. Streams of data assaulted the screen in front of him, and even with training and experience he was nearly overwhelmed by the row upon row of droidspeak. It took him several minutes to convert all binary to simple Basic, and several more to understand what the kriff the droid was _doing_ with all the data.

This was going to be a lot harder than even he could have anticipated.

**_Ventilation Shafts of _Subdue_, 1555_**

Sayn-Linn Swiftwater was not the best Jedi. She knew it, admitted it, and accepted it. There was little she could do to change this, and as such she let it be. She was good enough, and did the best she could with whatever she had.

She was, unbeknownst to herself, mildly humble in that respect, though at present she was, indeed, not "Council material". Humility was a quality which few of the younger end of Order possessed, and as such none of the older Jedi told her how much potential she had in case it should give her a big head before she was ready to assume a higher role, there being little doubt that she would _eventually_ get there, assuming she outlived the war.

She was also—and this, she knew all too well—in very big trouble at the moment.

Because, of course, the comm. tower had to be guarded by commando droids. A whole squad of commando droids. Who had backup somewhere, if their talk was anything to judge by.

The universe had a greater plan for her, she was sure. Yes, she was more of a proponent of the Living Force philosophy than the Unifying Force, but there was a destiny for her somewhere. She could_ feel_ it. She dreamed of it sometimes, something larger than the life others thought she might have, something that would affect, if not the galaxy then a fairly sizeable chunk therein, something bigger than she'd ever done. She could never remember more than flashes of these dreams, but they left her with a sense of _purpose_ and _pride_ and, most importantly, _peace_. All the suffering, the pain, the sweat, blood and tears that went into this war, was not in vain, if the Force had a plan as _large_ and_ beautiful _as she knew this one to be, no matter how small her part in it.

It seemed, however, that said plan (or at least her part in it) didn't come into effect until the universe had finished screwing her over a few dozen times.

If anyone doubted that the universe was a living thing as much as any of them, they ought to walk in her shoes for a day. They'd see it had a sense of humor, too.

Feeling very much like she was in a rut, she considered her options, and found them to be limited, as they always were these days. Then she started from the beginning _again_.

She had only her lightsaber. Well, that was a bit of a lie—she did have a few tricks up her sleeve, literally and figuratively, but the more literal one was something she was saving for later.

She could not call in backup until she had control of that tower. To hack into it would take five minutes or longer, depending on how thick the security system was, unless there was an R2 in there taking care of all the comm. chatter. In that case she could enter via a backdoor pass, but there was no telling how long it would take to guess the pass.

She was hiding in a ventilation shaft. It provided accurate cover, but if she couldn't fire a gun she didn't have through the grating it didn't matter.

She did not have enough materials to make an EMP, nor was it practical to try and hotwire the droids.

She was outnumbered ten to one, not counting the guards inside.

She was not expected from above.

She was not expected _at all_.

She had the Force. Even droids weren't immune to the living Force.

She had a plan.

Without another thought she slipped into a meditative pose, taking deep breaths. _Inhale, exhale. Gather up your worries, and release them._

Before being chosen as a Padawan, she had imagined the Force to be like a vast ocean in front of her, extending endlessly in all directions, with a thousand hidden depths and no bottom in sight. It was never still, never truly at balance. It flowed and swelled, its currents showing far-off places as if one was there, bringing forth visions from the past and future, tugging its interpreters far and wide and responding to their will as the water moved to a fish's wiggling. Sometimes she still imagined it as the expanse of salt water. It took her only a thought to slip into its waves, bobbing on the surface.

_Calm. I am a crystal pool with a surface of glass._

The water was rockier these days. How could it not be, with a war going on and the instruments of the Force's will now acting as officers in an unorthodox army? She found the water around her, even without delving deep, to be particularly stormy. Those who were close to her in the Force brushed past her patch of rain and high waves, some touching briefly to ensure she was still alive yet otherwise concerned more with their own personal squalls and placid spots. Not that she could blame them, as they continued on in this conflict they did not want. It was a rare, almost nonexistent day when she focused completely on every trial of each of her friends.

_Control. I am the eye at the center of this maelstorm._

It was always a struggle when she entered the Force now, today especially. Yet she refused to be swept up by the gale of fear, apprehension, loneliness, uncertainty, wariness, and despair that was all that remained in the Force of her unit. She would not do it.

Her stomach tightened. _My unit. How many of you might I have saved if I had killed Chlors the second he came to gloat, how many lives for his? How many might still be living, had I held my lightsaber to his throat and demanded surrender? I was a fool; I am sorry. This is my fault. I am sorry, my men. My comrades. My _friends_._

She shook out these thoughts. _No, I will not mourn you now and risk the lives of those you left behind. Your sacrifice will not be in vain._

_Peace. I am the still oak that stands against the howling winds._

She had found her center, finally, and focused now on the stack of crates at the other end of the hallway below, and the walls they stood against. She focused, and _pulled_.

The crates toppled, and her focus shifted slightly. Several commandos left to investigate what was going on. They were destroyed with another mighty tug, ripping the outer layers of the wall and sending it hurtling towards them, bending it around their metal frames. And as the remaining foes trained their guns on that end of the hall, she moved the grating and dropped down, immediately slicing two apart.

The next two were noticeably quicker than their fallen comrades, both spinning around with their blasters; one was disarmed before he could fire, and destroyed with his comrade's own shot. Said comrade seemed to be covering for the other three droids not destroyed or encased in a sheet of durasteel. She sliced him from the navel to the chops, then hurried to parry a blow from a vibroblade.

It is worthwhile to note that she had her own blend of Djem So and Makashi, striking hard and fast yet with attention to footwork and tactical advantages. She spun away from a downward strike from another commando, then stepped closer to slice while its blade was down. It missed anything vital, and then the first opponent aimed for her arm. She caught the blow on her arm guards and exchanged more parries with them both, pressing her every advantage until she caught one with the tip of the blade and sliced open its metal chest. She kicked it to crush its innards and it flew back, hissing and belching steam from destroyed hydraulics.

The third stepped in to take its place, firing quickly. It was doomed to an early end, and from there it was easy enough to best the last, disarming it and removing its head.

She stuck the remains in a supply closet around the corner and restacked the boxes to hide the hole in the wall before turning to the door. It would be far more inconspicuous to open it the regular way, and that's exactly what she did.

There were only a few B1s inside, (though they did not stay long), and then the R3 that ran the whole thing was alone. From what she knew of that series' schematics, it probably was monitoring every communication in the system. Including, possibly, the ones via helmet comm. earlier. She shuddered at the thought.

It was a surprisingly simple process to access the intel in the R3's memory, the backdoor pass being "George", the chairman's first name. She ran through the data until she found the list of current secure channels and pulled it up, side-by-side with the list of jammed channels. Now all she needed to do was move a few from the jammed category to the secure category and mark them as "emergency channels".

For this she chose channel four nine—an obvious and darkly humorous choice—and channel eight, the later for closed-circuit talk.

It took time to implement the bans, though it was not impossible. When she was finished she moved the scraped droids so they would join their brethren. _Let Chlors wonder where they went,_ she thought to herself. He'd no doubt assume it was her, then know it to be true when those wrapped like presents had escaped the durasteel around them. Thus would begin a regular witch hunt for her, if there wasn't already one going on. Oh, well. It would provide a distraction for the others, with luck.

Who was she kidding? She hadn't been lucky since this mess began.


	7. Fears are Subtly Revealed

Chapter 6: In Which Two of our Heroes Reveal Their Current Fears

* * *

><p><strong><em>Hangar Deck B-6 of the <em>Subdue_, 1607 CT_**

The helmet comm. crackled to life, a familiar, mildly grating sound which Cap was loathe to admit that he had missed. After all, he was _Cap_. He didn't have time to be all sentimental and shit just because he had been scared—and he wasn't scared in the first place, anyway. What was there to be scared of? It was actually pretty relaxing, not having to hear other people breathing in your ear and all that poodoo. He'd _enjoyed_ the silence. He didn't have to put up with other people's stupidity. He was completely and utterly at ease the whole time.

Ignore the fact that had he waited any longer his ears would have started bleeding from how hard he was straining to hear something, _anything _other than the sound of his own empty inhalations echoing ominously in his helmet. Disregard how he had never turned on and tuned a comm. faster in his life. Forget the way his heart soared at the unmistakable voice and exhales of his general, captain, and newest victim. Anyone who noticed that shit needed to have their eyes checked.

"—Leader, hailing all 'misfits', channel four nine, private channel eight. Calling for a sitrep, repeat, calling for a sitrep. Did everyone else meet with success?"

"Haran yeah." He was lying on the floor of a pretty sweet getaway ship, a sleek _Punworcca 116-_class interstellar sloop. It'd get them out of the system without a trace, and was small enough to avoid detection—it was almost perfect for their mission. There was only one problem, that of ending up away from a star when they dropped out of hyperspace. Because it used a solar sail to power itself, and solar sails worked best with a star in the nearby vincinity, he might have some trouble when they reached Skywalker's fleet, but he wasn't a frakking sergeant for nothing. If he could combine Jessaran, Caarimala and Twileki to form an insult severe enough to piss off foreign dignitaries from all three planets who only understood their own language out of the cultural mesh, he could clean up this inevitable mess.

"Great." The word was laced with the odd brand of sarcasm and disbelieving weariness Zach often reserved for his general and his most annoying pilot. Cap was certainly_ not_ glad to hear it for any reason other than that he enjoyed causing his captain pain. "This is Ferret, I'm working on figuring out how to keep those vultures off your tail. I think I found a way to do it, but it might take a couple minutes and I won't be able to start until you take off and someone notices. I'll keep searching for a better solution."

"Birdie here. The Worm has yet to check up on his Package. I'm starting to worry."

"Where are you? Let me get a lock on your transponder…hey, I'm actually just a few halls away. Hang on, I've got an idea."

"Hiat, last time you said those four words we ended up hanging by our usten ankles in a desert, waiting for a tribe of locals to finish the victory speeches and frakking sacrifice us already."

"That was only because you were being as stubborn as you usually are and refused to listen to either my instructions or the Captain's and insisted on shooting at the first thing you saw. And for the record, that was the only time we experienced such unfortunate results, and we_ did_ all survive that."

"Oh, so it's my fault now, is it, 'Leader'."

"Please, it always was."

"Butt out, Weaselman. And what are we supposed to do while we wait for you to finish this shit? Work on our shabla knitting?"

"Shut up, Mouth. The faster I get this done, the sooner you get to fly, hear?"

His leg was bothering him again. Oh keepuna, it hurt. He'd been lying when he said he'd just landed on it funny; his foot and some of his back had caught the tail end of the fireball that was the G9. It had scorched the armor, and then in a few places it had weakened the plastoid or worn it away completely, mixing the superheated melting goo right into his bodysuit and probably burning his back. It was still hot enough to do damage, seeming to only get worse over time, and he was in a crapload of pain. But he held it in. If she picked up the frakking pace and the rookie was as good at this as she had previously claimed- and he wasn't about to take any promise of hers at face value—then they'd be done with this soon and he could rest.

"Whatever. Just hurry up, alright?"

Even though he knew the jetii was most likely trying to speed it up, probably for his sake because she was being stupid and worrying about him, and even though he was grateful for it in some neglected part of the organ that acted as a surrogate for his currently absent heart, (he'd given the real thing, small as it was, to his girlfriend already), his words weren't terribly appreciative. But that was probably just a side-effect of trying to fake nonchalance through his teeth.

**_Ventilation Shafts of the _Subdue_, 1613_**

Bluebird had long ago passed the point at which a person is considered "tense" and had since entered into increasingly less-travelled, storm-tossed waters, until she reached where she was now- that is to say, completely and hopelessly lost.

Cap was alright, but he hadn't gotten off scotch-free and could still be discovered at any second. Captain Zach was probably fine but didn't have a very good idea as to how he could keep the pilot and Mahla safe when they finally took off, if that ever happened. Bluebird herself was going slightly stir-crazy and was far behind schedule. And now, General Swiftwater was going to put in motion another hare-brained scheme to try to get Chlors to somehow reveal the location of his captive, which most likely had a very low chance of success.

What if she _died _trying to get Chlors to visit the Representative? Bluebird had already put Cap's life in danger four times while he was trying to keep her alive, and those near-misses weighed impossibly heavy on her heart. She couldn't stand the thought of having another on her conscience, much less an actual death. And who would be able to lead them if things did go wrong? No doubt, Captain Zach was an excellent leader, (otherwise he'd never have been assigned under someone so…interesting), but she doubted the two of them alone could complete the mission Swiftwater had outlined once Cap left. If he left.

On the map pulled up in one corner, the dot that was Chlors stayed put while he chatted with some droids and his tail did her best to refrain from having a panic attack. The tracker was not a bug as well, so she couldn't even try to eavesdrop. (Though since she still didn't know where—or even how—the general had managed to plant it, she wasn't sure she'd be able to hear anything even if the device _could_ also pick up sound.) Devoid of any distraction whatsoever, she found herself imagining all sorts of bad situations in her mind, and counting the seconds as she waited anxiously for something to happen.

"Birdie, Leader has muted my comm. in her circuit. Tell her I said she better not be trying anything crazy, or I'll give her hell later." That was the captain, who sounded like he was also imagining all sorts of worst-case scenarios, only with a lot more annoyance and less outright fear than his subordinate.

The general's only response to this message was, "Crazy? Ach Gott, it's like the man doesn't know me at all."

She wasn't sure whether that was a good sign or bad.

While responding, Swiftwater had switched to an open mike or something of the sort. The trooper could tell since she heard her footsteps now. They weren't pounding over the floor like a charging rancor; it was more of a tapping sound, like the sound of a rare light rain on a landing platform on Kamino. A peculiar pace, since Bluebird had assumed the general was further away and thus needed to run to arrive with any level of haste, but apparently she was mistaken.

The open mike also allowed her to hear what happened over the course of the next few minutes as she sat apprehensively above.

What happened was, General Swiftwater stopped short and shouted so loudly she heard it twice, once in the comm. and again as it echoed strangely through the vent itself, "Hey, Chlors, looking for me?"

Through the mike she heard his gasp of fear just before he gave the (terribly cliché) order "Seize her!", again distorted through the metal. She could then hear the (also reverberating) sizzle of burning electronics, the hiss of wrecked hydraulics, and the faint hum of the lightsaber doing the work—she never would have thought so elegant a weapon would come with such a symphony.

Unexpectedly the dot representing the current dictator of the system took off running in the opposite direction at the general's charge, and then just as suddenly stopped and let out a squeak of fear. Yes, he had squeaked. It would've been one thing if it was a semi-dignified squeak, but it was not, and so she lost any fear she had of the Chairman himself with that sound. (His fleet was another matter entirely.)

"Give up, Chlors," the Jedi intoned calmly. "I have you at my mercy, and I can be quite lenient when I am faced with cooperative people. We have Representative Mahla in a secure location, where you cannot hope to touch her. And my men have already placed detonators in the reactors and said their prayers. We hold all the cards and are more than ready to die. Are you ready to do the same?"

It struck her as odd, how calmly she spoke, as if was not an ultimatum at all but instead a rather fascinating, if obscure, piece of history to be explained and debated over and, above all, relished for the gem of knowledge it was. There was not a trace of venom or ill will towards anyone, not even a cautionary tone.

"You're bluffing," he retorted, sounding more like he was trying to reassure himself than anything else.

And then her voice hardened, to the point where even the trooper, separated from her by a ceiling, aware of the fact that she was lying through her teeth, and not even the target of this remark, was a bit scared.

"I don't bluff."

Before Chlors could answer again, there was another doubly-resounding commotion below, from which she could make out the sound of firing blasters, the clammering and clanking she'd come to associate with droids, and that same tapping sound from before meshing with the song of an operating lightsaber, all nearly covering the dull _thwack_ of an organic body falling to a metallic floor.

At this point in time she was very much pumped on adrenaline, and adrenaline with nowhere to go is a terrible thing, sometimes resulting in rather nonsensical thoughts. And the first thought she had when she heard that _thwack_ was, _Oh, shit, that was the general, and now she's dead and we still don't know where Mahla is._

Her second thought was similarly ridiculous, stemming from the unmoving status of her target and being, _Oh, **frak** no, with our luck that was Chlors, and we won't _ever_ know where she is now._

In fact, the reason Chlors had quit moving in the first place was that General Swiftwater had decided to lift him off the ground via the Force, and the sound was only him falling back to the floor. If she had any doubts about the validity of her ridiculous assumptions, said doubts were confirmed a moment later, when the general spoke up.

"I sense Chlors is now paranoid. The first thing he'll do is check on Mahla, then have the reactors inspected, then the spacecraft. We have a very small window of opportunity here—we'll have to be quick but precise if this is going to work."

"Sure you want the frakking shiny to do this, then?"

"Mouth, if you don't stop bitching I am going to get over there and strangle you with a fuel line."

"Love you too, buir'ika."

"Now wait a—"

"Ruhe, both of you, I'm trying to concentrate."

"Concentrate, my ass."

"In case you haven't noticed, I now have the whole ship chasing after me. I'd appreciate it if you'd all just shut up and get the job done while they're distracted and I'm not."

"This is Birdie. The Worm's slithering away. I'm keeping on his tail as best I can."

"Ferret here, waiting for the party to start. I think I solved the whole problem, too."

"I am bored out of my mind. Do me a favor, shiny, and hurry up."

"Great, everyone. Bitte, don't say anything unless it's important."

Bluebird did as asked without complaint, unlike a certain pilot. Not that she wanted to talk much in the first place, seeing as she was trying to drag herself through the vents as quickly as possible without making too much noise. She much preferred the reassuring sound of her companions' breathing to that of either pointless and distracting chatter or dead silence.

The thing that made her task so challenging, first of all, was that the vents did not sync up with the halls exactly—some of the rooms even had separate ventilation systems—and there were fans she needed to get around, and walking was a lot faster than this shuffle-crawl thing she was doing, and on top of that she wasn't sure where they were going, so no matter what way you looked at it, it was bound to be at least mildly unpleasant. It was actually very harrowing in the long run. She was also still pumped up with the irrational, needless, suffocating adrenaline, which still had no place to go, and it was now giving her the jitters, making everything worse, if that was at all possible.

She really missed Slips right now. Slips would know how to sneak through this minefield without a problem. She didn't care if she had to deal with her sister's infuriating habit of managing to get on her nerves without even thinking about it, she just wanted someone to keep her company and make her feel less alone. Vhon'buir had said before that covert ops were the worst because of how isolated you were, but she'd never been able to appreciate it before. Oh Force, she wanted to see her family again!

Bluebird shook the thought away. Adrenaline was really doing funky things to her right now. Frak, why couldn't Chlors just _arrive _already so she could get out of here and maybe scrap something? She was getting claustrophobic.

She double-timed it, and prayed everything would be okay.


End file.
